


(sing another) song for the lost ones

by elanoides



Series: when the night has come [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bed & Breakfast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanoides/pseuds/elanoides
Summary: “Morning," Fjord says. "Where... am I? If you don’t mind my asking?”The man turns from the coffeepot, brushing copper hair out of his face. “This is Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast.”[or: a bed and breakfast au... sort of. also features: a sleepy seaside town, boats with people names, and what it means to not be lonely anymore.]
Relationships: Fjord/Caleb Widogast
Series: when the night has come [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636222
Comments: 30
Kudos: 167





	(sing another) song for the lost ones

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve written oneshots that are just single late-night conversations (sleepless in seattle but just the sad parts au, anyone?). i don’t think i’ve ever written a ship fic that doesn’t have at least one, and i’ve done it for gen fics too. guess it was about time i did something like this.
> 
> this fic was both inspired and betaed by the ever-lovely [westwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwind/pseuds/westwind), who saw my “wf b&b au” tag for “while the candlelight’s still glowing” all the way back in april and asked if it was a bed and breakfast au. it wasn’t. but this is. which is mostly thanks to west betaing it and providing opinions and encouragement the whole time, and also solving all my plot and structure problems singlehandedly. thank you west!!!
> 
> title from Ship in Port by Radical Face. (Age of Kings by The Mountain Goats counts as a b-side.)

When Fjord wakes to soft sheets and cool air, he’s sure he must have had a nightmare. _Green Fathom_ is a handy boat, but the storms off the ocean could snap it like a toy if he ever got caught in a gale. Of course he’d dream about it sometimes.

Fjord rolls over, eyes still closed. A faint breeze is whistling near him, and he can smell a familiar tang of salt. He lives well up the hill from Damali harbor, should be too far for a sea breeze, but maybe it’s a windy day. That would explain the nightmare.

And he probably kicked the covers off; that’s why he’s lying on top of them in his shirt and work pants. If the nightmare woke him early, that would explain why his alarm isn’t going off, but the light leaking through his eyelids is definitely the gray sunlight of a November morning.

Fjord opens his eyes, and he realizes instantly that something is very, very wrong.

He’s lying on a plain bed with a faded quilt. The walls around him are plain, whitewashed wood. He can hear a clock ticking on the nightstand beside him, but the nightstand is piled with so many books that he can’t actually see the clock. A bookshelf on the other side of the room is, if possible, even more overloaded than the nightstand, and a laundry basket full of carefully folded sweaters and trousers sits in one corner.

The window next to the bed is half-open, admitting the sea breeze Fjord had felt before, and he pushes it open to stick his head out. The view is good—he sees a vegetable patch cut back for winter, the rocky coastline, and gray waves crashing over it—but he doesn’t recognize it at all. Fjord isn’t sure exactly where he is, but it definitely isn’t Port Damali.

He gets up and hurries to the door. Part of him worries that it’ll be locked, but it opens, and he steps out into a kitchen. A stovetop and an oven pack one wall, and the windows over the wide sink are open. Most of the remaining wall space is lined with shelves and cabinets. As Fjord enters, a cat meows loudly and leaps from the counter onto the floor.

But Fjord’s gaze goes immediately to the coffeepot on the far counter and the man bent over it. He looks up as Fjord enters, brushing copper hair out of his face. “Good morning.”

“Morning. Where... am I? If you don’t mind my asking?”

The man turns from the coffeepot and leans against the counter. The cat twines around his ankles, and he lifts a foot, letting the cat rub its face against his sock. “This is Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast.”

“Which is where?”

“On the Menagerie Coast.”

“No, I know that—”

“We’re a mile outside Widow’s Ford.”

Fjord stares. “Widow’s Ford?”

“ _Ja_ , unless they changed the name since the last time I was in town,” the man says, dry. His expression turns concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got blown ninety miles up the coast in one storm, that’s all.”

“Ah. I was meaning to ask about that. What happened?”

“Not sure I know myself,” Fjord says, trying to keep his voice level. “I know I took my boat out this morning. Yesterday morning, I guess. And I got caught in the storm on my way back. Navigation went out— I was just trying to ride it out, but then I went down. I don’t really remember what happened after that...”

The man nods. “Most likely you ran aground on the shoals outside the bay. I saw your lights, and I was about to call the coast guard when you knocked on my door. I had not made up any of the other beds, so I gave you mine—do you not remember? You did seem exhausted...”

Now that he’s reminded of it, Fjord manages to stop and think through the night before. He’d been struggling with _Green Fathom_ in the storm, couldn’t get control, not with those waves. And then he hit something—must’ve gone overboard; after that there’s just the waves crashing over him, his chest seizing in freezing water, swimming toward the faint lights shining through the rain. He must’ve made it to shore, remembers stumbling toward a door, and not very much after that.

“Shit,” Fjord says, and buries his face in his hands for a moment—not even thinking about it, just sitting with it. When he looks back up, the man is still watching him intently. He holds himself stiffly. Something in the shoulders. “Sorry I took your bed,” Fjord tells him. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“I do not usually use it, so it was not a problem,” the man says.

“Right. Sure.” Fjord scrubs a hand over his face, asks the question: “Did you see what happened to my boat?”

“You can see it from here, but I don’t know much more. Beauregard said she’d try to tow it in today.”

“Yeah. All right.” He’ll probably have to fix it himself, unless there’s a shipwright somewhere in town. He won’t lose too much time— winter’s not the best season for fishing, not on this coast— but the repairs will be trouble.

“Ah—are you hungry?”

“No, it’s no problem, don’t bother,” Fjord says, still thinking about _Green Fathom_. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

The man nods. “As you wish. I _am_ the proprietor of a bed and breakfast, though.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“So you will have to find your own lunch and dinner.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just pick something up in town—”

“Ah, no, I didn’t mean—”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“You first,” Fjord says.

“That was, ah. A joke,” the man says. “I do cook lunch and dinner for myself. And I usually have extra food anyway. My friends often drop in unannounced, and cooking for two is no harder than cooking for one, so…”

“Aha,” Fjord says. “Right. Understood.” He’s met bed and breakfast owners before— some of them like a catch of the day. They all have a similar off-kilter sense of humor. It’s probably a prerequisite of opening a bed and breakfast.

The man nods. “Will eggs and bacon be all right?”

“Sounds perfect,” Fjord says. “Thank you.”

“Good. I will bring it out to you. The dining room is through that door.”

“Great.” Fjord heads for the door on the other side of the kitchen. It’s half-open, and part of a dining room is visible through it. The man stands at the coffeepot and watches him go.

The dining room is low-ceilinged, but relatively well-lit. The curtains are drawn back from both of the wide bay windows. Four round tables stand at one end of the room. There are chairs at each, but no place settings. A fireplace is built into the near end of the room, with three armchairs turned in around it.

Fjord goes to one of the bay windows and leans into it, scanning the bay and the breaking waves beyond. It doesn’t take him long to spot _Green Fathom_ , though it’s half-sunken on the shoals. The bow is tipped high, and Fjord stares and stares, trying to measure the damage from the angle of the gunwales and the curve of the hull.

Behind him, deliberate footsteps cross the floor. Fjord turns to see the man setting a plate and utensils on one of the tables. “Your breakfast,” he says. “And, ah, I realized I ought to introduce myself. My name is Caleb Widogast. I am the proprietor.”

“Fjord.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Caleb replies. He slips back into the kitchen. The door swings slightly on its hinges before settling shut.

Fjord stares out at _Green Fathom_ a minute longer before stepping away and taking the chair facing the window. Out on the shoal, waves rise and fall, washing over the distant hull.

He really has to fix his boat.

An hour later, a tug boat approaches and pulls within feet of the rocky shoreline. It honks loudly, and Fjord jumps up from his seat in the dining room as Caleb hurries out of the kitchen, a washcloth slung over his shoulder.

Caleb slips out the door onto the patio and calls, “Beauregard! Stop honking and come to shore!” He’s holding the door open, and Fjord edges out behind him. As he gets outside, he realizes just how much cat hair was inside the bed and breakfast by comparison, and he has to stifle a sneeze.

The tug honks once more, and then a figure in a blue windbreaker swings out of the cockpit and over the rail, landing in the surf with a splash. She wades up onto the shoreline, shouting back, “You called! I’m just ringing your doorbell!”

“I don’t have a doorbell!”

“I know! And you wonder why you don’t get guests!”

“I do not wonder, Beauregard, this is my bed and breakfast!”

By now Beauregard has made it up the grassy slope to get within easy speaking distance. “Yeah, well, whatever.” She turns to Fjord. “Are you the guy who washed up here?”

“Ah... yes,” Fjord says. “That’s me.”

“Oh. Fjord, Beauregard,” Caleb says, gesturing between them. “Beauregard, Fjord.”

“Call me Beau. Widow’s Ford Coast Guard,” Beau says, sticking out her hand to shake.

Fjord shakes it. “Fjord. I’m a fisherman out of Port Damali.”

“Great,” Beau says. “So you ran out on the shoal, huh?” She turns, shading her eyes with one hand, to peer at the listing shape of _Green Fathom_.

“Yeah,” Fjord says. “I lost navigation in the storm.”

Beau shrugs. “I’ve seen worse. Okay, c’mon.” She starts off down the hill again without waiting to see if Fjord will follow. After a moment, he does.

The tug is a squarish vessel, painted a uniform blue-gray. _Widow’s Ford Coast Guard_ is printed on one side in stenciled letters, and the name _Professor Thaddeus_ is emblazoned across its bow. Beau clambers onboard, and Fjord follows.

They motor the short distance out to the shoal. Beau mutters invective at the tug the whole time, apparently in the belief that either it can understand her or swearing will make it work better. She slows the tug to a stop just shy of the shoal, and Fjord climbs over the rail and splashes the last few feet to _Green Fathom_.

It isn’t as bad as it could be, but the cold dread that appeared in his gut when he woke up begins to curl up his spine at the sight of the crushed hull. He bends down to look, and sure enough, water has already begun to leak into the storage compartment. He’ll have to replace those panels— no sense trying to hammer the dent out when it’s cracked clean through— and finding the parts could take weeks in a town as small as Widow’s Ford.

Beau approaches and gives his boat a once-over. “Could be worse,” she says. “At least I can still tow this.”

Fjord looks back at her. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Like I said. I’ve seen way worse than this. People wreck on this shoal every year.”

“Sure,” Fjord says. “Okay.”

They hook _Green Fathom_ to the back of Beau’s tug, and after a few minutes of steady pulling, Fjord’s boat comes free from the shoal and floats crookedly behind _Professor Thaddeus_. It doesn’t take long to tow the vessel back to the Widow’s Ford harbor, which, as far as Fjord can tell, is the same size as the actual town. Between them, Beau and Fjord maneuver _Green Fathom_ onto a ramp and crank it up out of the water. The boat drips forlornly as Fjord gives it another once-over, but he doesn’t notice any more damage. Just what was already there.

“You can leave it here for now,” Beau tells him as they walk up the dock to the harbor office. “It’s not tourist season anymore, so there’s room.”

“Does it get busy in the summer?”

Beau shrugs. “Not really, but we pretend like it does.” She opens the screen door of the harbor office, and Fjord follows her in as she continues, “We get artists sometimes. And a lot of hitchhikers. There’s a traveling circus. Some of them stick around through the winter, and then they don’t really leave.”

“Right,” Fjord says. “That kind of small town.”

“Yeah,” Beau agrees. “Just don’t ask about anybody’s family. Or the weird crates in their shed, or whatever.” She slides behind the desk and takes out a pad of paper. “Okay. Owner name— Fjord. Vessel name— _Green Fathom_. Make—Falchion Motorcraft. Green trim, Goldeneye outboard motor. That sound right?”

“Yup.” He’s thankful she didn’t ask for a surname.

“You have a motor license?” 

Fjord rattles off the number, and Beau notes it down. She tears off the bottom half of the sheet and hands it to Fjord. “This is your confirmation that we have your boat in Widow’s Ford Harbor and you can get it back whenever. But your boat’s sorta hard to miss, so it won’t be a problem if you lose this.”

“Hard to miss?”

“We don’t have any other Falchions,” Beau says, gesturing out the window. “Kinda weird boat.”

“My boat is perfectly fine,” Fjord says, and he doesn’t mean to bristle as much as he does but he’s heard that enough already.

Beau blinks. “Okay, whatever.”

“Sorry,” Fjord says, already feeling bad. “You’re right. It’s kind of a weird boat.”

“Nah,” she says. “It’s fine. It’s your boat. People are weird about their weird boats.”

“...You didn’t grow up here, did you?”

Beau laughs outright. “Nope.”

Fjord refrains from mentioning that Beau is definitely at least a little weird about her weird tugboat. “Can I come here any time?”

Beau shrugs. “Harbor’s open.”

“Okay. I’ll... be back, then.”

“Cool,” Beau says. “I’ll tell Dairon.”

He walks back out to the harbor and sits down on the dock next to _Green Fathom_ with his feet in the water. It’s gray under the cloudy sky, and not warm. Summer is long gone now.

Fjord leans forward, arms crossed on his knees, and rests his head against the hull of his boat where it rests on the ramp. It makes a soft, hollow _thud_ , and he sighs, a long exhale that vanishes into the wind.

Then he gets up and sets about fixing his boat.

The route from Widow’s Ford back to the bed and breakfast is a winding dirt road that hews closely to the rocky shoreline. Fjord scuffs his feet a little as he walks, staring out to the horizon. He has too many things to think about, can’t settle on one. _Green Fathom_ , and the fishing he isn’t doing, and Vandren must be wondering where he is, and the lease on his apartment is paid until spring but that won’t keep the food from spoiling in the fridge, and his phone is still in his pocket but it isn’t turning on, and where is he going to stay while he works on his boat, and how will he work on his boat with a hole like that and no shipwright in town, how did he miss that storm coming in, he nearly drowned.

But slowly, the lights of Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast grow closer, and Fjord finds himself walking up the front steps and through the door. It’s warm inside. A small fire is crackling in the hearth in the dining room, and the kitchen door is open; as Fjord approaches, he hears the familiar sizzle of a frying pan.

He puts his head into the kitchen. Caleb looks up from the stove, setting a pan full of sauce back on the burner. “Hello, Fjord.”

“Hey,” Fjord says. “Smells good.”

“ _Ja_ , thank you.” Caleb pokes at the sauce again. “Should be ready soon.”

“Great.” Fjord, at a loss for what to do, leans against the counter, hands in his pockets. He watches Caleb, who moves with a constant, steady motion from pan to pot to sink to drawer, setting a spoon in the single bare spot on top of the stove and picking up the lid right beside it. It’s almost hypnotic, and Fjord doesn’t notice the cat he’d seen that morning padding along the counter toward him until he sneezes.

“Are you allergic?” Caleb asks. 

“Not too badly,” Fjord says. “Just, uh— mm— a little sneezy.” He attempts to stifle another sneeze and fails.

“Look in the cabinet,” Caleb says. Fjord stares around the kitchen. Before he can ask which of the several dozen cabinets he should be looking in, Caleb adds, “Catty-corner to you, on your left. White knobs.”

Fjord turns left, and sure enough, a cabinet with white knobs meets his eye. He opens it to reveal something like a medicine cabinet, and after a moment of searching, he finds a bottle of off-brand antihistamines.

“Glasses are to the right of the sink,” Caleb says, now peering into the larger pot on the stove. Fjord flounders for a moment before opening the cabinet immediately to the right of the sink and revealing rows of mismatched mugs and glasses. He takes the first that comes to hand and struggles with the handle on the faucet. Apparently it pushes back but also turns, and by the time he’s figured out how to fill a glass with lukewarm water, Caleb has appeared beside him with a steaming pot in his hands. Fjord scoots over, and Caleb pours pasta-scented water down the sink in a burst of steam that leaves drops of condensation on his brow. “Dinner’s ready,” he says.

Fjord reads the label on the medicine bottle in his hand and swallows one of the pills. He turns around to find Caleb offering him a bowl of pasta. “Here you are.”

Fjord takes the bowl. “Thanks.” He begins to walk out into the dining room, but stops. “Are you also eating?”

“Hm? Oh. _Ja_. You go on.”

Fjord lingers in the doorway, watching Caleb put the frying pan in the sink. “In the dining room?”

“What?”

“Are you coming to the dining room?” Fjord asks, already feeling foolish, but he continues, “Doesn’t seem right for us to both eat alone. There are plenty of chairs out there.”

Caleb nods, half-turning to take a bowl and a fork from a shelf. “All right.” He fills his bowl and goes to the door; Fjord steps out into the dining room with him, and they sit down at the table nearest the fireplace. Caleb hit a light switch on the way in, and the room floods with the shaky yellow light of old bulbs.

They eat in silence for a bit. It’s good pasta, and Fjord forces himself to slow down and act as though he ate lunch. He still finishes well before Caleb, despite the fact that Caleb served himself a much smaller portion.

Caleb gets up and goes to the fireplace. He places another split log on it and watches it flare and settle, then returns to the table. “Ah—Fjord?”

It’s the first thing either of them have said so far. “What?”

“How is your boat?”

“Could take me a while to fix.”

“Weeks? Months?”  
“Weeks, probably, but I don’t know yet. I might—guess I’ll find a place in town. The hull’s a mess, and a lot of the wiring is shorted. I’ll have to replace a lot of it, might just scrap it together if I can find the parts. I don’t know…” He trails off.

“You could stay here,” Caleb says.

“What?”

“If you find it suitable.” Caleb isn’t making eye contact, is looking down at his fork, which he turns between his fingers. “I have plenty of room. It’s no worry for me.”

“I don’t know what your rates are—”

“No, no need,” Caleb says quickly. “I planned for the winter without guests. I will be fine.”

Fjord stares. “Let me help you with the work, at least. Whatever you do for the winter—do you have to winterize at all?”

“A bit,” Caleb says. “I would appreciate that. If you have time.”

“I… I might take you up on that, then.”

Caleb looks up at him, nods. “I will make up a bedroom for you.”

“Thanks,” Fjord gets out, still disbelieving.

“Any port in a storm is better than none,” Caleb says.

“I think you’re mixing your metaphors a little there. Idioms.”

“ _Ja_ , you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Fjord says again. “Yeah, I do.”

They finish eating in silence after that. Fjord helps carry the dishes into the kitchen, but Caleb brushes off his attempts to help wash and dry, so instead he goes looking for the lost and found.

After some searching, he locates a wooden chest in the entryway. Fjord digs through the chest, excavating several layers of clothes and small items, and locates a charger that fits his phone. He plugs it into an outlet, hoping his phone will pick up the charge, but after half an hour of waiting it becomes clear that it isn’t coming back.

He goes back into the kitchen, where he finds Caleb stretching plastic wrap over a tupperware. “Do you have a landline?”

Caleb looks over his shoulder, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. “ _Ja_ , in the front hall.”

Fjord, thinking back, recalls a landline-shaped object on the other side of the entryway. “Right. Yep. Thanks.” He goes back and picks up the phone. It hums, and he picks out Vandren’s number on the keypad.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, just as Fjord is starting to lose hope, the ringing stops and Vandren says, “Hello? Who is this?”

“This is Fjord.”

“Fjord? How are you? _Where_ are you? We all thought you’d drowned! Hell, Sabian was taking bets.”

“Nope,” Fjord says. “Not dead. Just got blown all the way out to Widow’s Ford.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Vandren says. “Are you coming back?”

Fjord sighs. “About that.” He explains the entire mess: the storm, the crash, the broken hull, the bed and breakfast owner who apparently agreed to take him in. “So I don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably by spring, but I still don’t know how bad the damage to _Fathom_ is.”

“All right,” Vandren says. “Well—keep in touch, why don’t you, and let me know when you’ll be back.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Good man.”

The line goes dead, and Fjord stands there for a moment longer, listening to it hum.

He puts the phone back on the hook and goes to ask Caleb where he should sleep.

The next morning dawns just as cloudy as the one before. Fjord didn’t sleep all night—kept twitching himself away from crashing waves, and when faint morning light finally reaches the window, he drags himself out of bed and puts on the clothes he’d worn before. They’re a little stiff with salt, but he doesn’t have any other options. He might have to buy something in town. Or ask Vandren to mail him a package.

Caleb is in the kitchen again when Fjord makes his way down the hallway. He’s kneeling in front of the oven, peering intently at whatever’s inside, but he looks up at Fjord’s approach. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Fjord says. “That smells awfully good.”

“Hm. Thank you,” Caleb says, standing. He does it in stages, rising to one knee and then pulling himself up with a hand on top of the stove. “It is rye bread. It should be ready in eighteen minutes.”

“Do you just know that?”

“I am good at bread,” Caleb says.

Which doesn’t really answer Fjord’s question, but that’s fine. Very specific bread timing is well within the limits of the typical skillset of a bed and breakfast owner.

Caleb takes a pitcher out of the fridge and pours two glasses of orange juice. He passes one to Fjord, who sips it. It’s sweet, but not strongly so, and he finds himself drinking most of it as they wait for the bread to bake.

“Did you sleep well?” Caleb asks.

The question startles Fjord out of his half-daze. “Not really,” he says ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Almost drifted off a little right there, I guess.”

Caleb nods. “It is probably to be expected. You have had a, ah, traumatic experience. Sleep is often the first thing to go.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“I am up most nights,” Caleb says, kneeling to peer into the oven again. “So, if you want company.”

“I may take you up on that. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Caleb opens the oven and, plucking a potholder from the stovetop, removes a pan of dark bread. “I am usually reading in the dining room.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

They eat fresh bread with butter and jam in the thin light of a cloudy morning. Caleb probably made the jam, too; the thought strikes Fjord as strangely sweet. He walks down to Widow’s Ford to keep working on _Green Fathom_ with the taste of it still on his lips.

That night, Fjord goes to bed early. He undresses, lies down, and pulls the covers all the way up to his chin. He slows his breathing and listens to the surge and fall of his heartbeat.

He can hear the waves rushing outside. And it should be comforting, after all those years, but he can’t stop listening to it, how it rises and rises and rises before receding, only to rise again. How high is the tide in the harbor? Is it washing over the crushed sides of _Fathom_ ’s hull? Does the spray get as high as the gunwales, over the sides, flooding the cockpit?

He’s never going to get to sleep if he keeps thinking about it.

Fjord stretches his legs. Somehow, his eyes won’t close. He stares at the ceiling instead.

He doesn’t have spare clothes. It feels weird to take anything from Caleb’s lost and found. He’d rather not go back to other people’s left-behinds. He should ask Vandren. Vandren would help him. At least with this. Or he could try to find a place in Widow’s Ford. Even a town that small should have—well, it should have _something_. A chain, or a general store, or even a tourist shop.

And the tide is still rising, on the rocks, on the shore...

Fjord rolls onto his side. When he forces his eyes shut, the waves seem louder.

The night passes that way, all seven hours of it, until he sits up with a groan about an hour before dawn. He puts his shirt and pants back on and goes into the kitchen, assuming Caleb will still be asleep. It’s early yet.

But he enters the kitchen to the sound of a coffee pot beeping and the faint splash of coffee poured into a mug. Caleb looks up at him from the far counter, rubbing his eyes with one hand and cradling the mug to his chest with the other. “ _Hallo_.” His voice is rough with sleep, and he clears his throat, but it doesn’t seem to help much. “Sleep well?”

Fjord snorts. “Not hardly. Yourself?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” Fjord stifles a yawn. “Can I see some of that coffee?”

Caleb tilts the pot. “There’s a bit left. I can make more—”

“Nah.” Fjord reaches a mug down from the cabinet he remembers and pours himself the dregs. It’s hot in the back of his throat, and he chooses to believe his vision clarifies a little. “I’m headed down to the harbor.”

“Breakfast?”

Fjord shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.” Just tired.

“Ask for the tea shop if you want something to eat,” Caleb says. “The pastries are very good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fjord says. “Thanks.”

Caleb nods. “Not at all.”

When Fjord gets to the harbor, someone is standing on the dock by his boat—a tall woman, dressed only in a dark gray tank top despite the cool morning air and the breeze coming off the sea. Fjord trips into a jog and hustles up beside the stranger. “Hey—morning.”

The stranger turns to him. “Is this your boat?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve really done a number on it,” she says.

“Okay, look,” Fjord says, “accidents happen—”

“No, wait,” the stranger says, “I just thought, you know, I could maybe help you fix it. The boat.”

Fjord blinks. “You could?”

“Well, I think so,” she says. “Sailing is sort of my specialty, but I do know a lot about boats. So if you need an extra pair of hands, or something...”

“That’d be welcome,” Fjord says, because what the hell else can he say. He holds out his hand. “Fjord.”

“Yasha,” the stranger says, shaking his hand with a grip that could probably bend iron.

“So you—do you sail?”

Yasha nods and points across the harbor, to a sleek, low-slung sloop. “That one.”

Fjord shades his eyes to get a better look. He doesn’t recognize the make at all—might be Yasha’s own—but it has a certain economy of design, all strong lines and steep rigging that contrasts with the delicate, pearly sheen of the paintwork. The name _Zuala_ stands out in thin black strokes on the side. “Looks like a steady boat.”

“It is,” Yasha says. “I use it to sail storms. Anyway, I’m leaving tonight, but I can help you until I go. Have you checked the engine yet?”

“I did,” Fjord says, “but I don’t have all the right parts.”

“My tools are in my boat. I don’t know if I have the right materials, but I’ll look.”

“I don’t want to take your equipment, or your time—” Fjord starts.

“I was going to resupply up the coast anyway,” Yasha says. “And I wasn’t going to do anything but wait until the wind picks up tonight. I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, then,” Fjord says. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Yasha shrugs. “Tell Caleb hello from me?”

“Sure. Sure, I can do that.” It makes sense Yasha knows Caleb, Fjord thinks—everyone seems to know each other in this town, but besides that, they’re both the weird, quiet sort.

“All right,” Yasha says. “What kind is your engine?”

“Goldeneye outboard, series 9.”

Yasha nods and starts toward her own boat. “Let me get my tools.”

They spend the day working on _Green Fathom_ , first realigning the driveshaft of the engine, then cleaning out the casing and getting everything back in place. It wouldn’t be impossible for one person, but it would be harder, and Fjord’s grateful for Yasha’s assistance. He didn’t expect to find any fellow sailors willing to do him a good turn in a town as small as this.

Late in the afternoon, Yasha puts her tools away and departs. Fjord putters around _Green Fathom_ until he sees her motoring slowly out of the harbor. Once she reaches open water, she raises sail, and the sloop picks up speed. Fjord raises a hand and waves briefly. He isn’t sure if Yasha saw it until the sails dip briefly in acknowledgement, and then the sloop comes about and begins to tack into the wind, toward the rain bands lacing the horizon.

Fjord finishes closing up _Green Fathom_ and walks up to the harbor office. Beau is inside, scrolling on her phone with her feet up on the desk. The pose doesn’t look entirely natural, and the tone of her voice sounds a little assumed when she asks, “Did Yasha leave?”

“Yeah,” Fjord says. “Headed up the coast.”

Beau nods. “That’s where the circus is right now. She’s usually trying to catch up to them.”

“You mentioned the circus before, I think.”

“Yeah? Fletching and Moondrop. They come through a couple times a summer.”

“I think I’ve heard of them. Do they ever go to Port Damali?”

“Maybe. I don’t know their schedule. So, hey—did Yasha help you?”

“She did.”

“Yeah, thought she might. Yasha’s good. She’s worked on _Professor Thaddeus_ before.”

“Oh?”

“We kinda have an agreement.” Beau shrugs. “But at this point it’s not really favors anymore. It’s just… small town. Y’know?”

Fjord nods. “One good turn, and all.”

“Right. Oh—how’s the boat?”

“I still have to find some parts. Stuff to do. So… it could be a couple weeks.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Beau says, waving a hand. “It’s the off season. You can basically do whatever.”

“Well… thanks.”

“No problem,” Beau says. “But tell Caleb he owes me a drink, okay?”

“Can do.”

The sky is quiet when Fjord walks back to the bed and breakfast, but that night, just like Yasha said, the wind rises again. November is the first winter month at sea. Fjord knows that. He knows.

But he finds himself lying awake anyway, jolted out of every exhausted daze by the irregular surges of waves and moaning wind. It’s too easy to fall back into the spiral of sea, and boat, and storm, and today, and tomorrow, in a year. _Green Fathom_ sinks behind his eyes for hours.

He gives up on sleep past midnight, when he’s startled by a creak of shutters and wrenches himself free of the comforter and off the bed before he realizes it isn’t a hungry wave or a loosed line. Fjord sits heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face. He’s tired, aching, down to his fucking bones, but it seems sleep won’t find him tonight.

With a sigh, he gets up and leaves the guest bedroom. The hall isn’t as dark as he expected: light is filtering down the hallway. He follows it.

When he emerges into the dining room, he finds the source. A lamp is on, the light low and gold, and the fire in the hearth is still burning, though it’s nearly down to coals. Caleb is sitting in an armchair beside it. A book is open on his lap. He looks up at Fjord’s entrance. “Ah, _hallo_.” His voice is nearly as rough and warm as it had been that morning, and he clears his throat and repeats, “ _Hallo_ , Fjord.”

“Hello,” Fjord says, feeling like he’s intruding, like he’s broken into some private scene, slightly outside the reality of daylight. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep…”

“ _Ja_ , join the club,” Caleb says.

Fjord sits in the wide armchair facing the fire. It might even be a loveseat, he thinks, judging by the size of it. A smallish, creaky loveseat, with cushions that slip a person back into their embrace.

“Are you up here every night?” he hazards, leaning back against the cushions.

“Most nights,” Caleb says. It’s hard to read his expression; he’s half-silhouetted by the firelight, and it throws his face into shadowy relief. “It is better than lying awake in the dark.”

Fjord nods. “That’s true.” It is; he can’t hear the storm as loudly. Maybe the walls are thicker here, or maybe the low hiss of the coals helps drown it out.

Caleb looks at him. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

Almost a question, but not quite; of course Caleb’s seen the shadows under his eyes. “Not since the storm.”

“Ah.” Caleb glances at the window, but doesn’t mention the wind or the waves rushing just outside, invisible in the darkness. Fjord finds himself thankful.

Caleb doesn’t say anything more, and Fjord doesn’t want to disturb him, really—he seems intent on his reading—and so he sits and watches the fire for a long, long time.

Fjord wakes up slowly. It takes him a moment to figure out where he is, and then he struggles upright, pulling himself out of the loveseat he’d apparently fallen asleep in the night before. It’s morning. Caleb is gone, and the hearth is cold.

As he’s starting to look around, the door to the kitchen creaks open, and Caleb steps out with a breakfast sandwich in hand—just a bun and a few pieces of ham, but it smells good, and Fjord’s stomach growls. “Good morning,” Caleb says.

“Morning. Uh—did I sleep here?”  
“ _Ja_ , you did.” Caleb’s eyes are crinkling at the corners, almost the beginnings of a smile, though Fjord doesn’t think he’s seen Caleb smile once thus far. “Do you want breakfast?”  
Fjord’s stomach grumbles again. “Yeah. Sure. That’d be great.”

Caleb waves him into the kitchen, and Fjord leans against the counter, watching as Caleb slices a few pieces of ham into a pan and adds two buttered halves of a bun to toast.

“It’s good that you slept,” Caleb says, after watching the ham sizzle for a minute.

“Yeah,” Fjord agrees. “I feel a lot better.” He stretches, and his back cracks in several places. “That’s worse. But the rest is better. I don’t know, maybe it helped to not be in the dark.”

Caleb nods. He takes a spatula down from the cluttered shelf above the stove and goes about flipping the ham as it sizzles. “I have also found that light helps, sometimes.”

“Or the company,” Fjord says, still thinking aloud.

Caleb pauses, then says, “ _Ja_. That as well.”

They sit in the dining room and eat together in comfortable silence. When Fjord goes down to the harbor, the sky seems a little brighter, although it might just be the sleep.

That afternoon, Fjord closes up his boat a little earlier and goes up into the town proper. Widow’s Ford really is a small place—no stoplights, no lines on the roads—and it only takes him a few minutes to walk the length of Main Street. The road winds away from the town, and if Fjord shades his eyes, he thinks he can see the occasional flash of a car along a distant highway. For a second, he considers walking up and trying to hitch a ride to Port Damali, but what the hell would he do after that? _Green Fathom_ is in Widow’s Ford, which means his entire life is, too.

He turns around and walks back down Main Street to the shop Beau had described to him. Sure enough, there’s an awning proclaiming that the widest shopfront window is Brenatto Pharmacy. The sign on the door reads _Open!_ , and when Fjord walks in, a handful of bells jingle right in his ear.

He’d sort of expected the shop to be empty, but there are two people on either side of the counter at the back. One is a woman he doesn’t recognize with a double handful of button necklaces strung around her neck. The other is Caleb, who looks back from the woman behind the counter and says, “Fjord?”

“Hey,” Fjord says. “Sorry, am I interrupting, uh, a conversation? Something?” They’re leaning in toward each other, and he feels inexplicably embarrassed.

“No, not at all,” Caleb says. “Fjord, this is my friend, Veth Brenatto. Nott, this is Fjord. I told you about him—he’s staying with me until he can fix his boat.”

“Oh, this is Fjord?” the woman—Nott?—says. “The castaway?”

“The castaway, okay,” Fjord says, “that’s not exactly accurate. I’m just sticking around here for a bit. Until I can... fix my boat.”

“I told him he might be able to find anything he needs here,” Caleb tells Nott. “A referral.”

“Aw, you,” she says, beaming. “All right then. What do you need?”

“Clothes, for starters,” Fjord says. “And a toothbrush.”

“Yeah, yeah, we have that. You need anything... interesting?”

“Nott,” Caleb says with a sigh.

“What?”

“I do not think Fjord is after anything from behind the counter.”

“Well, I thought I’d ask,” Nott says. “Didn’t you want me to be welcoming?”

“Yes, but not like that,” Caleb says.

“If you think there’s something I need—” Fjord begins, trying for diplomacy.

“No,” Caleb says, “no, you will be fine. Unless you are interested in... recreational substances.” “Or small-batch artisanal liquors,” Nott protests, “don’t give him the wrong idea.”

Fjord quickly recalculates his opinion of Brenatto Pharmacy. “I think I’m all right. But thank you.”

“You sure?” Nott asks.

“Yes, I’m sure. And if I was looking for clothes? Toiletries?”

Nott points. “That corner.”

“Thanks,” Fjord says, and flees the conversation.

Luckily, Brenatto Pharmacy is well stocked with just about everything he needs, and Fjord manages to find several t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants in his size, as well as socks and underwear. He also locates his usual toiletries, although he recognizes none of the brands and ends up risking a quick sniff of the deodorant options while Nott and Caleb are deep in conversation to find one he likes. When he’s found everything, he pays with some of the emergency cash he keeps in the dry safe on _Green Fathom_ —the first time it’s come in handy in four years—and steps out the door and back into the quiet street.

The door opens behind him, and Fjord looks back to see Caleb slipping out the door of the general store. “Are you coming back? I thought you were talking to Nott—?”

“ _Ja_ , I thought I would walk back with you,” Caleb says. “I meant to go back anyway. If you don’t want me to, of course I do not have to—”

“No, no, that’s just fine,” Fjord says hastily. “I just didn’t think you’d want to, is all.”

“Well, ah—here I am,” Caleb says.

“Yup,” Fjord agrees.

After a brief pause, during which Fjord envisions and dreads twenty minutes of perfect, awkward silence while they walk, Caleb says, “Did you get everything you needed?”

“I think so,” Fjord says, swinging the plastic bag in his hand. “Should hold me over until I can get back to Port Damali.”

“If you need to go back,” Caleb says, “I do not own a car, but Nott and Jester each do, and there is a bus that comes through town. You should be able to make the round trip in a day.”

Fjord nods. “I might. But I—honestly, I don’t know what good it would do.” He regrets admitting that, skates over it, continues, “I’d like to get _Fathom_ fixed as soon as possible.”

“ _Ja_ , that is understandable. How is it coming along?”

“It’s going well,” Fjord says, and then, “It’s—it’ll be some work. I’m not worried, I don’t think, but it’ll be some work.”

“Beauregard mentioned Yasha gave you a hand with the motor?”

“Yeah, before she left again. Does she leave like that a lot?”

“She’ll be back,” Caleb says. “She follows the storms, generally. And the circus.”

“That’s right, Beau told me that. Does the circus come through Widow’s Ford?”

“Sometimes,” Caleb says. “Twice a summer or so, but they’re up and down the coast, and inland, too.” He goes on, telling Fjord about the circus performers—a friend of Yasha’s named Mollymauk among them—and that jogs Fjord’s memory to a performance he saw years ago in Port Damali with circus folk who played the violin and breathed fire. “That sounds like Desmond and Ornna,” Caleb muses, “I wouldn’t be surprised.” And somehow, the conversation carries them all the way back to Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast and through the doorway and their dinner. It’s easy, so easy that Fjord barely notices at all.

Sleep, on the other hand, is distant as ever. Despite finally having something to sleep in that isn’t the same shirt and pants he nearly drowned in or someone else’s clothes, Fjord lies awake late into the night, tossing and turning as he tries to force himself to relax. But sleep doesn’t come, and he finally gets up and goes back to the dining room. It worked last time, after all.

Caleb is there once again, reading a different book. He glances up when Fjord walks in and sits heavily in the loveseat facing the fire. “Hello again.”

“Hey,” Fjord says. “I don’t mean to keep you up or anything, I just—figured it worked last night.”

“No, not at all,” Caleb says. “I think the—ah, the company might be helpful.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Fjord agrees. “I used to be pretty accustomed to sharing space. Might still be... familiar.”

Caleb nods. “That is understandable. It is sometimes hard to shake something, once you are used to it.”

“Bad habits,” Fjord agrees.

“Yes, or—or customs, or memories.”

“Memories?”

Caleb looks at him. Looks away. “ _Ja_.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Fjord says. “I just didn’t expect to hear it.”

“Hah—well.” Caleb inclines his head, doesn’t quite make eye contact. “I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about it.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Fjord doesn’t push; it’d be too much, too soon, he thinks. And there’s enough of his own that he’s left behind. He can respect a bit of silence.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

That afternoon, Fjord ends up laying on the dock next to _Green Fathom_ , staring at the clouds scudding across the dull blue sky. Waves wash under him, echoing faintly as they break on the dock pilings and the harbor wall. _Fathom_ rocks gently with the flow. It’s soothing, laying there with his eyes full of sky and his ears full of the sea, and he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice the footsteps approaching along the dock until they’re right on top of him and someone chirps, “Hello!”

Fjord doesn’t fall off the dock, but it’s a close thing, and he has to scramble to his feet to keep his balance. “What?”

“You’re Fjord, right?” the woman in front of him says cheerfully. She’s wearing a paint-spattered dress and glittering earrings, and she continues without letting him get a word in: “I just wanted to see how you were doing, you know, since the wreck. How’s your boat? It looks a lot better than it used to.”

“Ah—sorry,” he says, “how do you know my name?”

“Beau told me!” she says.

“Right,” Fjord says. “And you are...”

“I’m Jester! I thought I’d come see how your boat was going, since Beau said it was pretty busted.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Fjord says.

“It looks good, though,” Jester says, stepping to the edge of the dock and peering at _Fathom_. “When do you think it’ll be done?”

“I’m not sure,” Fjord says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right now I’m waiting for the caulk to set.”

“Oh!” Jester turns to face him. “Caduceus was just saying he hadn’t met you yet either, because you’re always down at the docks and you haven’t come up for tea—and Caleb hasn’t brought you—but we could go see him now, if you want! He has the best pastries.”

“...You know what,” Fjord says, “sure.” The caulk will be at least another hour, and it’s not like he’s doing anything. Caleb did say Caduceus’s shop was worth a visit.

“Great!” Jester says, grinning.

The walk to Caduceus’s shop isn’t long. It’s a block off Main Street, tucked between two other buildings. A hand-painted sign in the window reads _The Blooming Grove_ _Tea Shop_. Jester pushes in the door first. “Hello, Caduceus!”

“Hi, Jester,” a deeper voice says as Fjord enters behind her. The tea shop is so densely cluttered it takes him a moment to spot the person who spoke, but then a very tall figure with bright pink hair stands up from a chair at the back of the shop, and Fjord immediately realizes why the ceiling of the tea shop is so high. “Oh, is this Fjord?”

“Yes,” Fjord says, “and you must be Caduceus?”

“That’s me,” Caduceus says, smiling. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s awfully cold out there, and I’m told you’ve been out on the docks every day.”

“Oh—ah, whatever you have on hand would be just fine.”

“All right,” Caduceus says. “Usual for you, Jester?”

“Hibiscus and rosehip tea, and a pastry,” Jester agrees.

In short order, Caduceus produces three cups of tea and a plate of scones, which he sets on a table near the front of the shop. He and Jester take two chairs, and Fjord takes the third. He has no idea who these people are, but on the other hand, Caleb and Beau have mentioned them before, so it’s probably fine.

“How’s the boat coming along?” Caduceus asks, cradling his teacup between his hands.

“It’s going all right,” Fjord says. “Always more to do.” He doesn’t really feel like discussing it with two virtual strangers, though, and he flails for a change of topic. “Lovely town you have here. Not a bad one to be stuck in.”

“It is!” Jester says. “But I don’t think I’m ‘stuck’. I could go home if I wanted to. And if I wouldn’t be arrested right away, but I could just stay at my mama’s house.”

“Oh, I just meant myself—wait, are you stuck here too?”

“Well, sort of,” Jester says. “I’m an artist-in-residence, technically, so I can leave any time I want.”

“Unless you get... arrested? In your hometown?”

“Yep!” she says, in a voice that seems far too cheerful for the topic.

“Right,” Fjord says. “Great.” He turns his focus to Caduceus, who is watching the conversation with a serene smile. “And are you also wanted for...” He realizes Jester hasn’t actually said what she might be arrested for, and finishes weakly, “...crimes?”

“I’m not,” Caduceus says, in a way that implies that somebody else—besides Jester—is. “This is my family’s tea shop.” He pauses. “Although I haven’t seen any of them in a couple years now.” 

“It wasn’t really a crime, you know,” Jester says.

Fjord stares back and forth between them, and finally settles on, “That’s great.”

“Mhm!” Jester agrees. “So, what do you think of Widow’s Ford?”

“Oh, it’s... very nice? Very, uh, quaint. Seems like a nice town for a vacation.”

“That it is,” Caduceus says. “But we don’t get very many people in the summer anyway. Just some regulars. And then some who stick around, like Jester here.” He smiles at Fjord over his cup of tea. “You might find you like it more than you expect.”

“I guess I might,” Fjord says, more out of a desire to be polite than anything else. After all, Caduceus is the one pouring his tea, and he’s not ruling out an attempt to poison him. The unsolved true crime shit Sabian likes to talk about always seems to happen in quaint seaside towns.

“It’s very pretty,” Jester says. “I’ve never lived this close to the sea before. Right when I got here, I wanted to live as close to the shore as I could, so I—oh! You’re staying with Caleb, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“I stayed with Caleb for a little while when I got here,” Jester explains. “That’s how I met him. Is he still sleeping badly?”

“He— is, yes.” Fjord hopes she doesn’t press him for details. The nights he’s spent sitting up with Caleb feel oddly precious, in their way. Like sea glass, the tiny, tumbled kind he used to pick up on the beaches of Port Damali. Still does, sometimes.

But Jester doesn’t press, and the conversation meanders on.

Fjord finally leaves two hours later, well after the caulk on _Green Fathom_ ’s hull has set. After the initial surprise of meeting Caduceus and Jester, he found himself relaxing into their easy conversation, and he ends up walking away with a box of Caduceus’s loose-leaf tea. Jester accompanies him back to the harbor as the afternoon begins to darken into evening. “Come back soon!” she tells him when he steps down onto the dock to go close up _Fathom_.

Fjord looks back at her. “I’m here every day...”

“Yes, but come talk to us! Beau likes you, and Yasha likes you, and Nott likes you, and Caduceus and I like you, and obviously Caleb likes you if he’s let you stay with him for the winter.”

“Caleb likes me?”

“Yes, of course he does! You didn’t think he’d let just anyone stay, did you?”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Fjord admits.

“Well, he doesn’t,” Jester informs him. “Anyway, you should come back for tea—and bring Caleb! He doesn’t come into town nearly enough.”

“I will do that,” Fjord agrees.

“Great!” Jester says. “Bye, Fjord!”

She darts off, and Fjord turns back to _Green Fathom_. He’s not sure what to make of either Jester or Caduceus, but they seem like good people. Better than he could’ve expected to meet. He feels that way about everyone in Widow’s Ford, if he’s honest.

Strange town.

That night, after he’s already passed out in the loveseat in the dining room, Fjord wakes to the sound of short, gasping breaths. For a second, he thinks they’re his own. Then his eyes focus, and he sees Caleb in the light of the near-dead coals, curled in on himself, his hands pressed to his face.

“Caleb,” he says, more breath than word.

Caleb twitches in his seat, then lowers his hands from his face, straightens. “Fjord? What is it?” His voice is raw, as though he’s been crying, but his eyes are dry.

“Are you—” Fjord stops himself before he asks if Caleb’s all right. “C’mon,” he says instead, and makes room in the loveseat.

Caleb stares at him for a long moment, and then he gets up and stumbles the two steps from his seat to Fjord’s, sitting heavily in the space Fjord left.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Fjord offers, grasping at straws.

Caleb doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Fjord waits, keeping his peace. Finally, Caleb murmurs, “I do not always dream about it. But I usually expect to. On the nights when I do not expect to, it is always worse, somehow.” He pauses. “Maybe I should always expect a nightmare.”

“It isn’t the worst thing to have a little hope,” Fjord says. “Y’know. Might not always be this bad.”

“I could say the same to you,” Caleb tells him.

“That’s—fair,” Fjord says. “That’s very fair.”

They sit in silence for a little while.

“Think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” Fjord asks.

Caleb considers it. “Maybe.”

“All right. I’ll be here.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says.

Fjord begins to drowse, figuring that’s the end of it. He’s almost asleep when Caleb murmurs, “Fjord?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Thank you.”

“Course.”

Another pause. Then: “Good night.”

“Night,” Fjord says back.

He must fall asleep soon after that—it seems like no time passes before he wakes with a crick in his neck to gray predawn light. The coffee maker is whirring in the kitchen. Caleb must have woken up not long before him; he gets up and goes in.

Caleb looks up as he enters. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Fjord says. “Sleep well?”

“As well as I can expect, I suppose.” The coffee maker beeps, and Caleb pours his mug of coffee, then takes down another mug from the shelf, fills it, and holds it out to Fjord.

“Thanks.” He leans against the counter as he drinks, looking out the window at the sea. The sun is still under the horizon, but the clouds are starting to turn peach and gold around the edges.

Caleb clears his throat, and Fjord looks up from his mug, meets Caleb’s clear blue gaze. “Ah... Fjord. Thank you.”

“You already said that, Caleb. There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“On the contrary,” Caleb says quietly.

“You’d do the same for me,” Fjord says. “You’ve already done the same for me.” And then, “Anyway, if you can’t sleep, I’d rather be awake.”

“You need your rest, Fjord.”

“So do you. And if I can help you at all, be a friendly ear, I consider that a fair trade.”

“A fair trade,” Caleb says. “ _Ja_ , I suppose.”

They finish their coffee in silence.

That night, Fjord stares at the ceiling for half an hour or so before deciding that he isn’t going to get to sleep for a while. But he’s not swimming in exhaustion—he’s just awake. Like he got a good night’s sleep the night before, despite spending it crammed into the corner of the loveseat.

He gets up and goes to the dining room. The hallway is darker than usual, and when he enters the room he realizes why: the lamp isn’t on, and the fire in the hearth is already down to coals. Stranger still, Caleb is completely absent.

He must try to sleep sometimes, then. Probably good.

Fjord slumps into the loveseat, staring at the coals in the hearth. The light in them flows like water, rising and falling from white to orange to red. Sparks pop faintly and curl up the chimney.

Time passes, interminable. Fjord drifts on the edge of wakefulness. He might be waiting for something. He doesn’t know what.

When the door opens, it rouses him, and he blinks at the figure in the doorway. Caleb peers at him ruefully. “Ah, Fjord, I am sorry—did I wake you?” His voice is low, with softened edges, creaking like _Fathom_ ’s hull in surf.

“Nah,” Fjord says. “Wasn’t sleeping.” He sits up a little. “You okay?”

Caleb nods. “ _Ja_. I thought I might sleep well tonight, but it seems I have become accustomed to sitting up with you.”

“I... I don’t know whether to apologize or not,” Fjord admits.

Caleb chuckles and steps into the room, settling himself on the hearth. “No need.” He opens his book and begins to read.

Fjord watches, drowsing, and slowly the brush of page on page lulls him surely into sleep.

The morning dawns clear and warmer than it’s been lately, and Fjord shucks his coat well before noon, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his skin. He’s absorbed by his work, focused on the miniscule gaps left between the panels of the hull. But since Jester snuck up on him, he tries to keep an ear out, and he hears Beau walking down the dock in time to look up to greet her. “Hey—morning.”

“Hey,” Beau replies, seemingly in passing, but she stops next to him, looking over _Green Fathom_ where it rests on the ramp. “How’s the boat?”

“As good as it can be,” Fjord says.

“Looks better.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Beau stares at _Fathom_ a moment longer, then snaps her fingers and says, “Right, I was gonna ask you how long you think you’re gonna be. Dairon wants to know.”

“Right. Yes. And Dairon is...”

“Head officer for this region. They don’t actually care, but they have to keep up the paperwork. So?”

Fjord considers his answer for a second. He could give the optimistic answer, or the pessimistic one, or try to duck it entirely, though he doesn’t think he’d have much luck with that. “I’m not sure,” he says at last. “Hopefully within the month. But there are always new problems.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Beau says. She lifts a middle finger casually to the side, and Fjord has to look twice before he realizes she’s flipping the bird to _Professor Thaddeus_ , which is moored on the opposite side of the harbor. “So I’ll tell Dairon a month, and they’ll understand if it’s longer or shorter or whatever.” She pauses, seeming to weigh her next words. “Okay, and, how are you... doing?”

“How am I doing?”

“Yeah—fuck,” Beau says, groaning. “Look. How are you doing? I’m trying to be hospitable and shit, help me out here, man.”

“I’m doing...” Fjord almost says _fine_ , then doesn’t. “I don’t know. I’m sleeping a little better, so that’s something.”

“You looked like shit before,” Beau agrees. “Got a little less—” she gestures at her own eyes—“y’know, shadows, wrinkles.”

“...Thanks.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just asking because this town can be... an adjustment. I mean, it’s not _that_ weird, it’s just not the cities. Can feel kinda lonely at first.”

“Yes,” Fjord agrees. “It can.”

“So,” Beau says. “Yeah. Good to hear things are going a little better.”

“How did _you_ end up here?” Fjord asks, then thinks of his conversation with Jester and Caduceus and adds, “Actually, you don’t have to answer that.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Beau says. “My parents packed me off to the naval academy, and then I ended up joining the coast guard instead, because they wanted basically the same skills and I knew it would piss off my old man. And then I got assigned here, and I just... didn’t leave.” She shrugs. “Not leaving is how most of us ended up here.”

“That tracks with what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah. Small towns are like that sometimes.”

“Do you like it here?”

Beau fixes him with a hard stare—hard, but not mean. “Yeah. I do.” She says it firmly, like he’s going to argue with her about it.

“Sorry,” Fjord says. “I shouldn’t pry—I have no idea what your reasons are, and I don’t need to. That’s your business, I—”

“It’s not as lonely as it looks,” Beau says.

“What?”

“It’s not as lonely as it looks.” She gestures up at the town, the rooftops in crooked rows above them on the shore, the road curving inland and away. The peaked roof of Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast isn’t visible at this distance, but her hand sweeps wide enough to include it. “I know everyone in this town. Some of them are even friends. I mean, it can be fucking isolating here—there’s only one road out of town and the cell service isn’t great. So, not gonna lie, it sucked at first.”

“But it got better?”

“Yeah, it got better.” Beau huffs and rolls her shoulders. “Okay. Heart-to-heart’s over.” She urns on her heel and starts walking back up the dock.

“Beau,” Fjord calls after her.

Beau stops. “What?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’re welcome.”

The next night, Fjord lies awake for an hour and a half before getting up and walking quietly back to the dining room. Sure enough, Caleb’s there again, reading by the fire. He looks up. “ _Hallo_.”

“Hey,” Fjord says, taking his place in the loveseat across from him. He’s more awake than anything tonight. Sleep is close enough to see, but too distant to reach, like the lights of ships passing outside the harbor.

“I miss Port Damali,” he says.

“That is understandable, _ja_.”

“Understandable?”

Caleb closes his book, not bothering to mark the page, and turns in his seat to face Fjord more fully. “Of course, understandable. It is your home, and you are—it is hard to be away from home.”

“But that’s the thing,” Fjord says, “it’s not my home. Hell, Vandren didn’t seem to care that I was out here. He said Sabian was taking bets on whether I was _alive_. Well, Sabian’s always been—that doesn’t matter. The point is—there is nothing there that I should miss.”

“Nothing?”

“No,” Fjord says. “ _Green Fathom_ is here, so... that’s it.”

“There is not a place, or a person?”

“Guess not.” Fjord gets up from his chair, walks to the window just to feel like he’s getting somewhere. When he turns, Caleb is still watching him, book closed on his lap. Fjord paces back across the room, feels Caleb’s gaze move with him. “Maybe I miss just being there,” he says.

“The day to day?”

“Maybe. Yeah.” He starts back toward the window, slower this time. “I had a routine. Get up in the morning, down to the docks, go out with everyone else. Just me and _Fathom_ now, but it used to be whatever day crew had hired me on. Vandren, for a while. But—not recently. I like working alone better.”

He reaches the window and turns around. “The routine was good. My apartment, the docks, the corner bar, and the grocery... guess that was pretty much it.” He laughs, weakly. “I shouldn’t miss it.”

“There is no shame in that,” Caleb says, low. “I have lived three different lives, now. It is hard not to miss the previous two. No matter the mistakes I made.”

Fjord walks back to the loveseat and sits heavily. “ _Green Fathom_ was Vandren’s,” he says. “He sold it to me at half market price when he retired. Guess he thought I’d earned it or something. But he was always more about giving people the tools they needed and then stepping away.”

“I had a mentor as well,” Caleb says. “He was, ah... perhaps more hands-on than your Vandren.” His gaze drifts to the fire, burning low at his back. “I became... reckless, under his tutelage. And callous.” Then back to Fjord, very intent: “I still miss those days. Simply for the confidence I had. I had not thought of it that way, but—perhaps that is what we are missing. The certainty.”

“You seem pretty certain now,” Fjord says.

“Now, yes. But I still...” Caleb trails off. “I am not the man I—could have been.” He shakes his head. “There was some comfort to it.”

“Yeah,” Fjord says slowly. “I guess there was.”

Port Damali, in his head, is a bed and a street and a berth in a harbor. It’s the place that raised him—he owes it that much. And he does miss it. But it’s easier, somehow, to know that he misses it for the certainty it provided. He had a life in Port Damali, as small as it was, and now that’s gone.

Maybe Caleb is thinking the same; Fjord isn’t sure. Still, the night draws on, and he falls asleep without dreaming of the storm.

Yasha returns on a cloudy afternoon the same color as the pearly sides of her sloop. Fjord stands up from his hunch over the gunwale of _Fathom_ to wave to her. He doesn’t get a response at first, but as Yasha motors smoothly into her berth, she turns to look over her shoulder and raises a hand briefly back.

Fjord goes back to work, but after about half an hour, he looks up to see Yasha walking down the dock in his direction, and he gets up to meet her. “Hey, Yasha.”

“Hey,” she says back, and adds, “You look better.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told. How are you? It’s been a little while since you were here.”

“Yes, I guess so. I’m good. Still following the storms.”

“Did you catch up to the circus?”

Yasha smiles. Somehow Fjord didn’t expect her to. It’s a small smile, but genuine, and it fits on her face. “Yes, I did,” she says. “Outside of Port Zoon. I would’ve stayed longer, but the wind changed again.”

“Really—another storm?”

“I follow them where they go,” Yasha says. “The winds change quickly at this time of year.”

“Do you go out all winter, too?”

“Of course. The storms are smaller, but the winds are different.” Yasha shrugs, stretches. “Do you mind if I stay here a bit? I want to watch the weather.”

“Sure,” Fjord says. “Wouldn’t mind the company.”

Yasha sits with him for a while, staring out to the horizon. Fjord doesn’t need another pair of hands at the moment, but he’d meant it when he said he didn’t mind the company, and Yasha seems content to sit in silence.

“See anything?” he asks after a little while, still working over the gunwale.

“Yes,” Yasha says. “There will be a storm tonight.”

Fjord stands, stretching his back, to look at her. “How can you tell?”

“I know these winds,” Yasha says, still staring out to sea. Then she turns back to him and adds, “Also, I’ve been listening to the forecast.”

“95.3 AM?”

Yasha’s eyebrows go up. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I’m out of Port Damali,” he says. “That was my home station. It’s pretty reliable.”

“That’s right. Yes. 95.3.” Yasha nods. “I try not to rely on them too much, though. The weather changes fast out here. Storms come up out of nowhere sometimes.”

“They definitely do that.”

“Oh—sorry,” Yasha says. “I forgot you, uh...”

“Got caught in a freak storm?”

“It isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” Yasha says. “Sometimes the weather is bad, or the forecast is wrong.”

“I got blown ninety miles up the coast and crashed my boat on a shoal.”

“Yes, well—” Yasha comes to a stop, then shrugs. “There isn’t always anything you can do about that. You stay careful, and you listen to the forecast.”

“And you listen to the forecast,” Fjord agrees.

“I listen to it just to listen to it, sometimes,” Yasha says. “Beau suggested it. I call my friend Mollymauk sometimes, but my phone doesn’t work that far from shore most of the time. And it’s easy to get stuck in your head out there, when you’re past the shipping lanes, or late at night. That isn’t—always good, for me. It turns out.”

“Makes sense,” Fjord says. He can imagine it easily—Yasha lying in the cockpit of her sloop beneath a starry sky, the radio buzzing softly at her head. “I like the quiet myself, but I’m never out longer than a day.”

“I like the quiet too,” Yasha says. “But there are also people I love.”

She says it so plainly that it seems obvious. Fjord nods, slowly. “Yeah. That’s—that’s fair.”

“So, you know,” Yasha says. “The radio is nice sometimes.”

They talk shop a while longer, until the gray afternoon starts to darken into twilight. Yasha goes up to the office to meet Beau, and Fjord walks back to the inn, thinking, as he walks, about a radio forecast with a Damali accent and static on the air.

The next night, Fjord manages a light doze for a little while before jolting into wakefulness again. Sleep doesn’t feel tenable, and he sits up with a sigh and goes to the dining room. Caleb is already there, sitting at the hearth with a book open on his lap. The fire is blazing at his back, and Fjord warms his hands at it for a moment before taking his usual spot in the loveseat.

He’s slipping toward sleep when Caleb gets up from the hearth and goes to the woodbox. He rummages through it for a moment and drags out two split logs. Fjord watches through half-lidded eyes as Caleb tosses both logs onto the fire at angles. After a second, the flames flare, filling the entire hearth and licking up the chimney. Caleb stays barely a foot away, even when the fire blazes so hot Fjord can feel it from his seat. As the flames subside, Caleb sits on the edge of the hearth, still watching.

It’s warmer in the room now, and Fjord starts to drowse. He isn’t sure how long it’s been when Caleb gets up and adds another log to the hearth, but the fire was still burning bright and hot before the log went on.

And this—this doesn’t feel usual for Caleb. Fjord hauls himself a little more upright in his seat, willing his brain to work. Caleb will lay a log or two at dinner, but he always lets the hearth go down to coals. He doesn’t keep it stoked this late.

Fjord sits, watching the fire as Caleb does, and sure enough, Caleb gets up again just a few minutes later. The fire is still crackling merrily away, though it’s down a little bit from the blaze earlier.

“Hey,” Fjord says, molasses-thick with sleep. “Are you—uh, are you okay?”

Caleb stops in his tracks and blinks at him. Fjord waits, and after a moment, Caleb says, “ _Ja_. I am fine.” He bends over the woodbox again and retrieves two more logs.

Fjord drags himself out of the loveseat and goes to meet him before he can lay the logs on the fire. He takes the logs from Caleb, as gently as he can, and puts them to the side. “The fire’s all right.” He isn’t entirely sure he’s doing the right thing, but this close he can see the glassy look in Caleb’s eyes—part exhaustion, part something else he doesn’t want to name. “You don’t have to,” he says, and again, “The fire’s all right.”

“I need to keep it lit,” Caleb mumbles, reaching for the logs again. His gaze strays to the fireplace and catches there. “I need to... stay awake...”

“Come sit down,” Fjord says. “If you want.” He backs slowly toward the loveseat, and Caleb allows himself to be drawn with him. Fjord sits as close to the arm as he can, leaving most of the space for Caleb, who sits and slides slowly back into the curve of the cushions without seeming to notice. “All right?” he asks.

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says, but hollow, as though he didn’t even hear.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

Caleb’s head comes up a little, and then he nods slightly. Hard to tell whether he means yes to being all right or yes to not being all right, but Fjord will take either as long as Caleb’s listening to him. And he knows it’s probably the latter anyway.

He’s happy enough to just sit there with Caleb, maybe distract him if he gets up to lay another log on the hearth, but after a moment Caleb tips sideways and leans against him. Caleb is very still, and his weight is light, as though he’s holding himself away, despite being actually partly on top of Fjord.

Fjord moves his arm, and Caleb flinches away as though burned—maybe bad choice of words, Fjord thinks—as though startled. “No,” Fjord says, “you’re fine, c’mere.” He raises his arm, making space against his side.

Caleb stares at him for a moment. Then he shuffles sideways on the loveseat and leans slowly into Fjord’s chest. Fjord puts his arm carefully around Caleb’s shoulders, and gradually, by degrees, Caleb relaxes. His gaze remains fixed on the hearth, but baby steps, Fjord figures.

The pop and crackle of fresh wood dulls slowly to the sigh of coals. Fjord begins to drift again, his awareness reduced to his body and the points of contact where Caleb leans against him. The dusky darkness of the room feels endless, as though the entire world rests under the same coal-lit night. Caleb is slowly going limp against his side—not heavy, but warm, and all bones at angles.

Then there’s a sound like something breaking—like water spilling from a cracked mug—and Fjord can’t place it in his half-asleep state until Caleb jolts up a little, arms wrapped around himself. Breaths creak from his mouth like tiny sobs, and Fjord sits more upright, puts a hand on Caleb’s back. He only means a little comfort, but Caleb turns as though tugged and stares at him, eyes wide and bright in the darkness. Then, wordlessly, he falls back against Fjord’s side and buries his face in his shoulder.

Fjord puts an arm around him, trying not to show his surprise. There’s nothing stiff about Caleb now, nothing held in reserve, though he’s trembling so faintly that Fjord didn’t notice until he was already in his arms. Gradually, Caleb’s breathing slows. Fjord imagines he can feel his heartbeat calming.

He doesn’t want to speak, not when whatever nightmare gripped Caleb seems to have already dissolved. So he watches the firelight and lays the pieces side by side in his head. Caleb’s sleepless nights. His seat by the hearth. The way he stoked the fire tonight, never letting it go down, intent on it despite his exhaustion and the fear—Fjord can name it now, that fear in his eyes. The nightmare that overtook him as soon as he fell asleep.

So the fire must keep him awake. Fjord can imagine, all too easily, Caleb spending nights stoking the hearthfire into a blaze to force himself to stay alert. He’d be caught in an endless, churning loop of panic, but it’d be enough to keep himself awake.

The nightmares must be awful.

The hearth has almost gone to coals by the time Fjord falls asleep. Before he passes out entirely, he puts both arms around Caleb, just in case he wakes up again. As he does, he feels a tug. He looks down, and realizes that Caleb has a hand clutched in the front of his shirt, even in sleep, as if hanging on to him.

 _Oh,_ Fjord thinks, before sleep finally overtakes him.

He wakes to morning light and the smell of coffee. Caleb is gone, but the empty spot on the loveseat still feels warm—maybe Fjord started waking up when Caleb got up. He sits up and stretches, trying to get the inevitable crick in his neck out. He isn’t sure exactly what time it is, but he must have gotten at least a couple hours of sleep.

Just as he starts for the kitchen door, it swings open, revealing Caleb with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. He looks better—less worn, his eyes a little brighter. “Oh,” Caleb says. “ _Hallo_.”

“Hey,” Fjord says. “Sleep well?”

Caleb shrugs. “I was having a, ah, rather worse night than usual, last night, and I did not expect to sleep at all, so... thank you.”

“No trouble,” Fjord says. “Glad it helped. Did you have any more nightmares?”

“One more,” Caleb says. “But it was somewhat less... painful, and I would have woken up anyway. I suppose having someone there might have— well.” He shakes his head. “That is all.” Caleb looks at the mug in his hand. “Ah. Coffee?”

“Sure,” Fjord says, and follows him into the kitchen.

That afternoon, Fjord spends nearly an hour crouched on the ramp holding _Green Fathom_ out of the water as he inspects the caulk on the hull. It’s better—getting better, anyway, but it still needs time.

When he finally pries himself out of his uncomfortable hunch on the ramp, he notices a lone figure up on the harbor wall. From the height and pink hair, he guesses it’s Caduceus. Sure enough, Caduceus appears to notice Fjord stretching his back, and he walks slowly down the dock until he reaches _Green Fathom_ ’s berth.

Fjord raises a hand in greeting. “Afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Caduceus replies peaceably. He sits cross-legged on the dock and produces a thermos and two teacups. Fjord watches, caught between confusion and resignation, as Caduceus fills both cups and offers one to him. “Here. This will help with sore muscles.”

Fjord accepts the cup and sits down next to him. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Caduceus says. “Seemed like you might need it.”

“I suppose I do,” Fjord agrees.

His chagrin must show on his face; Caduceus says, “It’s important to keep your body healthy.”

“That it is,” Fjord says, and takes a gulp of the tea. He isn’t much of a tea drinker, but it doesn’t burn his tongue and it tastes fine, so he figures it’s good.

“How are you liking Widow’s Ford?”

“It’s a lovely town,” Fjord says.

“It is,” Caduceus agrees with a smile. “How are you liking it?”

“Just fine,” Fjord says, still unsure what he’s being asked.

“That’s good,” Caduceus says.

Fjord decides to take that as confirmation that he said the right thing. Talking to Caduceus makes him feel like he’s standing on the deck of an unfamiliar vessel: he thinks he knows which way it’s going to pitch or yaw, but then it goes the other way and he’s struggling to find his footing again.

Sure enough, he’s caught off guard again when Caduceus adds, “It suits you.”

“What does?”

“This town.” Caduceus sets his cup down on his knee. “People tend to come here looking for something. It isn’t the best place to look, but people do, and sometimes they find something.”

Fjord pauses, then guesses, “And it’s not what they think they’re looking for?”

“Well, yes,” Caduceus says, “and no. Sometimes you know what you want but you don’t know what you need, or you need something you don’t know, or all you know is what you don’t want. And that makes it more difficult. But everyone gets there in the end.”

“That so?”

“Yeah,” Caduceus says, low and warm. “This is a good place for finding things.”

Fjord expects him to keep talking, maybe to pry into what brought Fjord to this town and why he’s stayed, but Caduceus says nothing more. He just sits there, tea steaming faintly in his hands.

So Fjord goes back to work. And the day goes on.

Fjord really does try to sleep that night, but a nightmare begins to grasp at him and he wrenches himself awake before he slips any deeper. Relief at his escape and frustration at the need for it get him up, out of bed, and down the hall to the dining room to sink into the loveseat.

“Good evening,” Caleb greets him.

“Evening,” Fjord says back. “How’re you doing?”

“As usual,” Caleb says. “Though, Fjord—I have been meaning to ask, how is your room?”

“Well, I’m not in it a whole lot, as you know,” Fjord says, making it just enough of a joke to draw the flicker of a smile to Caleb’s face. “But it’s nice. Cozy. Got a sea view.”

Caleb nods. “I do not get many guests, so I thought I should ask.”

“In the winter?”

“I do not get many guests at all,” Caleb clarifies. “This town is not much of a vacation spot. And most prefer to stay by the harbor in the summer when they come. There are some rooms that are rented out in town.”

“So no one stays here at all?”

“No,” Caleb says, “sometimes there are people who are hoping to remain somewhere for a little while. Beauregard stayed here before she found a place to live. So did Jester, last summer. There have been some others, but I suppose those are the two you know.”

Fjord pauses, looks at Caleb, half-lit beside the hearth. “You prefer it that way, don’t you?”

“ _Ja_ , I do,” Caleb says. “I did not really intend to purchase a bed and breakfast, but it, ah—fell into my lap. The woman I bought it from had the stipulation to keep it up as a business—I did not get to ask her to clarify, and she did not give me any way to contact her, so I am not sure exactly what she meant. I did not really intend to run a bed and breakfast, but apparently word got around.”

“It suits you,” Fjord says. He feels foolish as soon as the words come out of his mouth, but he still thinks it’s right. Caleb is a part of Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast, or perhaps he’s made the house part of him. His breathing forms its creaks and groans; its fire is his own; the quiet of the one is the quiet of the other.

Caleb blinks at him. Then: “Thank you, I think.” He looks down, his expression falling partly into shadow, then back up. “I am glad the room is to your liking.”

“Oh—right, you asked—yeah. It is. I know you didn’t mean to run a bed and breakfast, but if you ask me, you’re doing a good job of it.”

Caleb smiles again, with a little hitch that might be the beginning of a laugh. “Ah—thank you, Fjord.” His name is lilting in Caleb’s mouth, oddly sweet. “I am glad to have you.”

“I’m glad to be here,” Fjord says back—says it soft, as gently as he can, wanting to keep that smile on Caleb’s face.

And Caleb turns his head away, mutters a faint “ _Ja_ ,” but the smile stays.

A nightmare jettisons Fjord from his sleep the very next night. It shouldn’t surprise him that he wakes up with a scream in his throat and a storm behind his eyes, but he still has to scrabble for the edge of the bed and lurch upright before he can be sure he’s awake. He untangles himself from his sheets and stumbles for the dining room on instinct.

Sure enough, Caleb is seated in his armchair, and he looks up when Fjord enters. A book is open on his lap, but he seems more asleep than awake. “Fjord?”

“Hey,” Fjord says, and falls heavily into the loveseat. His hands are shaking slightly with leftover adrenaline, and he clasps them together, willing himself to calm down. He can’t fix his boat or go back to Port Damali, but he should at least be able to stop his fucking hands from shaking. He doesn’t even remember what the dream was about.

“Fjord,” Caleb’s saying. “Are you all right?”

He tears his gaze away from his clenched, trembling hands. Caleb is looking at him with concern. “Yeah,” Fjord says. “I’m fine.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Little bit. And then...” He gestures at himself. “Y’know.”

“ _Ja_ , I do,” Caleb murmurs. “A nightmare?”

“When is it not?”

“I’m sorry.”

Fjord huffs out a fraction of a laugh. “Yeah. Me too.” He regrets laughing, adds, “I mean—thank you, Caleb. It’s just—” He cuts himself off, because how is he going to explain this, how is he going to say that he feels like his entire life is spiraling out of his control and all he wants is a night of sleep?

“I’m sorry,” Caleb says again, and then, “It is—difficult. To talk about.”

That pulls Fjord’s gaze back to him. Caleb has closed his book on his lap, and he’s watching Fjord intently. It’s almost tangible, how much of his attention has turned to him, like a lighthouse beam.

“It is,” Fjord agrees, finally.

“I have found that company helps, as you know,” Caleb says—is that hesitancy? Fjord isn’t sure—“but, ah. If you ever wanted to discuss it. Or if you wanted help staying awake.”

Caleb’s gaze hasn’t wavered, and Fjord finds himself stopping to consider it, trying to decide what Caleb is offering. At last, he says, “I don’t—I’m not sure, tonight. But I will keep that in mind.” He pours warmth into it, as much as he can, trying to make it everything he hasn’t said.

And Caleb nods, the line of his brow softening. “Very well.”

Fjord doesn’t fall asleep again. After hours of darkness, he watches dawn approach through the picture window, turning the sea indigo, then gray. Caleb twitches awake just as the sun begins to breach the horizon, and his eyes find Fjord. A faint smile touches his lips. “Good morning.”

Fjord finds himself smiling back. “Morning.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

The day goes on.

“I’ve never had trouble sleeping before,” Fjord says that night.

He can feel Caleb’s gaze on him. “Before the storm?”

“Never. Not even at sea.”

The next night: “I should be able to beat this.”

“The nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“If you learn how, tell me.”

“Yeah, well. You don’t wake up screaming.”

“Only sometimes.”

“But how do you do it at all? I can’t figure...”

“Sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“With some exhaustion, the dreams are... fewer. And I do not remember them.”

“Mine are all the same.”

“Mine as well. They still keep me awake.”

“I think I’m losing control...”

He tries to breathe.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know.” Softer: “I don’t know.”

“I have no idea what I’m going to do.” This, so late Caleb is asleep, nodding over the pages of the book on his lap, and the fire has burned to coals. Fjord breaks his gaze away.

He stays awake.

“I keep dreaming about the storm,” Fjord says, standing in the doorway. It’s barely been an hour since he went to bed; he stared at the ceiling until he was sure Caleb would be in the dining room and then got back up, still dressed, and went to find him. Caleb looks up from his book, an expression like a question on his face, and Fjord loses his last scrap of will to be proud about it. “I’m exhausted,” he says, spits it out on the ground between them. “Fucking exhausted. Every day I get _Fathom_ a little closer to being done and then I can’t even fucking sleep, I just—what the fuck am I _doing?_ ”

Caleb closes his book. Fjord stays where he is in the doorway, pinned to the spot, watching Caleb get up and step away from the hearth. He stands beside the loveseat Fjord’s spent the past two weeks sleeping in, and his gaze is bright, is burning. And it’s a clean hurt, the way rain feels after lightning—fresh water on the shivering surface of his skin.

“Come sit,” Caleb says, quietly.

He doesn’t feel himself moving toward the loveseat, but he sits, and Caleb settles beside him, close enough to feel warm. Caleb turns toward him, enough to knock their knees together. “Fjord,” he says, “it is all right to be afraid.”

“I’m not _afraid_ ,” Fjord bites out, and he regrets it instantly, but Caleb doesn’t so much as flinch. “I’m—shit, Caleb.”

“Very well, you are not afraid,” Caleb agrees. “But something like that doesn’t just go away. It—I have found it takes more time.” He does not look away from Fjord, but the firelight reflects faintly in his eyes.

“Tell me how to fix this, then,” Fjord says. “Tell me how I fix this. If you know so much, just tell me.”

“I don’t know very much at all,” Caleb says quietly. “I just know it has not done me well, to be alone. I thought it would be better and it was not. It still surprises me.” He reaches out, grips Fjord’s hand. Fjord holds on tight, and he swears he can feel both their pulses wound together. “I think you are strong,” Caleb says. “I think you are brave. It is remarkable, I—you are remarkable. And I do not have advice, except to tell you that—I am here. If you want me to be. If you do not wish to be alone any more.”

It should be a platitude, but somehow, from Caleb, it isn’t. Fjord knows it’s a promise, an expression of faith, and for a moment all he can see is Caleb’s hand firm in his, the fire at his back. The storm is far away.

“So what do we do?” Fjord asks. “You’re saying, just... wait? And eventually I might be all right?”

“Eventually,” Caleb says. “Or maybe already something has changed. Maybe you have found something new, something a little bit better. It is sometimes hard to see...”

Fjord pauses, breathes with it. “Maybe,” he says. “Yeah. The people I’ve met...”

“They are good people,” Caleb says, low.

“You’re included in that, you know. And—and this town. And _Green Fathom_ is nearly done. Well, it’s getting close, anyway. So some things are better. It’s just me. I’m—” this punches half a laugh out of him—“I’m the thing I can’t fix.”

“Can you not?” Caleb asks. “It seems to me, Fjord,” and the directness of his name on Caleb’s lips startles him, “that you are, ah...” He trails off, seemingly unsure, and then: “You are more yourself. I am not sure, but it seems like I am talking to a man who is more than he was when I met him.”

“I was recovering from drowning,” Fjord protests, partly teasing.

“ _Ja_. Perhaps that is all,” Caleb agrees lightly. “But if you are happy, that is enough.”

“If I’m happy?”

The question slips from him, but Caleb answers: “Yes, Fjord. If you are happy.”

Fjord believes him in the split second before he remembers that it’s impossible. And then he draws himself back and thinks about it again. Has to—the answer isn’t on his lips, on his tongue, not in the back of his throat or sinking in his stomach. It’s somewhere deeper, buried inside him, as though he swallowed it long ago and never fished it back out.

When he finds it, he doesn’t say it. It’s too fragile a thing to let go that soon, but he grips Caleb’s hand and says, softly, “Thank you.”

Caleb blinks at him. “Of course.”

“No, really,” Fjord says, because it’s important that Caleb hears this, “thank you. You said you didn’t know how to solve it, but you’ve told me an awful lot.”

“You are welcome,” Caleb replies, quiet. “You are welcome, Fjord.”

They’ve sunk together in the loveseat, the distance between them collapsed by Caleb’s rainwater gaze and Fjord half-falling apart. When he slumps back against the loveseat, Caleb goes with him. They sit side by side, pressed together.

Caleb hasn’t let go of his hand.

And Fjord isn’t sure, when he wakes in the morning to an empty loveseat and the smell of coffee in the kitchen, but he thinks they fell asleep that way, in an unspoken agreement not to let go.

In the morning, it’s colder than it’s been lately, but the sky seems brighter than usual in the spots left clear between the clouds. When Fjord gets down to the dock, Beau is already there, sitting cross-legged out at the end. She seems oddly relaxed, so he doesn’t bother her just then.

 _Green Fathom_ isn’t done, not yet—it still needs work in a dozen places—but as he looks it over, parts of it do seem to be coming together. The belly of the hull has been mostly restored to its smooth, ribbed curve, and the transom is back in one piece.

Still, there’s more to be done, so he sits down to work.

He’s knee-deep in spare parts and seawater when Beau finally meanders up to _Fathom_ ’s berth. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Fjord says back, craning his neck to look at her. “Can you hold this for me?”

Beau leans down and holds the metal patch to the hull, and Fjord pins the corners down with rivets before sitting up and shaking out his arms. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Beau says. “How’s the boat?”

“It’s coming along,” Fjord says. “I should be out of your hair sooner rather than later.”

Beau shrugs. “I mean, you’re good to stay here for as long as you want. I was just asking. There’s kinda only one small talk question to ask you right now, unless you feel like talking about the weather or something, but I get that plenty from Cad, so it’s boat questions or nothing.”

“In that case,” Fjord says, “it’s going... surprisingly well, actually.” He pats the hull with one hand, and it makes a healthy _thunk_ back at him. “Almost seaworthy again.”

“That’s great, man,” Beau says. She’s gruff as always, but seems to mean it, and Fjord appreciates it for what it is.

Beau sits down on the dock, then flops on her back with her feet dangling off the edge. Fjord looks at her. “Are you here to help me, or...?”

“Nah,” Beau says, closing her eyes. “It’s nice out. I’m slacking.”

Fjord hands her the rivet gun. “Hold this for me.”

“Fine,” Beau says, and holds the rivet gun in one upraised hand while Fjord sets the rest of the rivets into the hull. He takes the rivet gun to fix them in place, then passes it back to Beau, who sets it on her stomach and folds her arms beneath her head.

“Are you happy here?” Fjord asks, a minute later.

Beau opens one eye. “What?”

“Are you happy here?”

“I heard you, it’s just not what I was expecting you to ask.” Beau sighs, eyes closed again. “Yeah, I am. Didn’t think I’d ever be happy anywhere, but... here it is.”

Fjord nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

“It’s fine.”

Fjord keeps working, but slowly, and after another minute Beau asks, “What about you? Are you... happy here? I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but still.”

“I think so,” Fjord says. “I think I am.”

“That’s good,” Beau says.

“Yeah,” Fjord says, and he tilts his face up into the lacework sunlight. “Yeah, it is.” 

That night, Fjord lies awake for a bit before rousing himself and going to the dining room. He hasn’t slept through a single night in that bed, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll take anytime soon. He’s gotten too used to going elsewhere.

Caleb looks up when he enters. “Good evening, Fjord.”

“Evening,” Fjord says. He sinks into the loveseat and leans against the arm. Maybe it really is habit—he finds himself relaxing almost instantly into a sudden tide of drowsiness.

He pushes it off, though, and says through a yawn, “How was your day?”

Caleb blinks at him. Then: “Good enough. I have baked enough bread for several days.”

“Rye again?”

“And rolls.”

“How did you learn to make bread, anyway?”

Caleb’s face closes off for a moment, but then he relaxes again. “My mother used to. I have just enough memory of her recipes to do it myself. And I have practiced.”

“You’re good at it,” Fjord tells him.

Caleb dips his head, smiling faintly. “Practice makes perfect, eh?”

“I’ll say.”

The fire is dying down, and it bathes the room in the soothing red-gold dusk Fjord has become so accustomed to. He drifts.

“Are you asleep?” Caleb asks, some time later.

“Gonna be,” Fjord says. It turns into a yawn, and Caleb hides a yawn of his own behind his hand. Fjord tells him, “You should sleep.”

“ _Ja_. As soon as I finish this chapter.”

Fjord stretches, sighs, leans back into the loveseat. “I’ll wait for you, then.”

Caleb blinks at him. Then a crooked smile makes its way to his lips. “All right. I will try not to keep you waiting.”

True to his word, he doesn’t read much more—can’t be longer than ten minutes, though Fjord tends to lose his grip on time at night, before Caleb closes his book and yawns, listing slightly to the side.

“Hey,” Fjord says. “C’mere. If you want. There’s room.” He pats the loveseat next to him. He isn’t sure why he offers at all—hasn’t he slept sitting up every night Fjord’s seen him?—but he’s half-asleep already, too tired and warm to think of anything else.

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb agrees, and crosses the narrow space between them. He sits, upright at first, and then curled to the side, just close enough that their shoulders brush when he breathes in. Fjord would say something to him, but his eyes are already closing.

“Sleep well,” Caleb might murmur, just as Fjord slips over the edge from drowsing to sleep, the shelf and the seafloor. Fjord is asleep before he remembers to say it back, if Caleb really said it at all. But the wish follows him down, and he sleeps easily; he does not dream.

The next day, Caleb looks up from the coffeepot to say, “We will be having some guests over for dinner tonight.”

“Who?”

“Beauregard, Yasha, Jester, Caduceus, and Nott. And you and I.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“No, besides Yasha coming back this evening.”

“Ah.” Fjord nods. “Well, I can stay in town tonight, if you want... time with them?”

“You’re included in this dinner, Fjord,” Caleb says. “If you do not wish to join us you do not have to, but I would like to have you here, and so would everyone else.”

Fjord rewinds the conversation in his head—sure enough, Caleb had mentioned “you and I”. “Oh—yes,” he says, and pretends he hasn’t stumbled at all. “All right. Sure. I can be here.”

“Good,” Caleb says. “Nott will pick you, Beauregard, and Yasha up from the harbor. Her car should have enough room for everyone as long as nobody fights over who’s riding shotgun.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“You’ll see,” Caleb says, with the most long-suffering air Fjord’s ever seen from him.

That afternoon, as Fjord works on caulking the last of the newly riveted seams in _Fathom_ ’s hull, he spots a sleek, pearl-sided sailboat splitting through the distant whitecaps. He stands and squints, but he doesn’t need to see the name on the side of the sloop to know it’s Yasha—for one thing, he’s never seen anyone else out for a pleasure cruise in late November. Yasha motors into the harbor a few minutes later, and after she finishes mooring _Zuala_ , she crosses the dock to meet Fjord at _Fathom_ ’s berth.

“Afternoon,” Fjord says, standing to greet her. “How was your trip?”

“It was nice,” she says. “I missed the storms on the deep ocean. The waves are different when you go farther.”

“Were you out for the storm two nights ago?”

“Yes,” Yasha says, “and the one before that. I was supposed to be back yesterday, but I went a little farther than I meant to.”

“You know Caleb’s having everyone over for dinner tonight, right?”

“Jester called and told me.”

Fjord keeps working on _Fathom_ , and Yasha sits nearby on the dock, occasionally handing him tools but mostly looking out at the horizon, where the clouds that have threatened rain all day are beginning to darken. It’s a familiar kind of quiet, and he almost feels like whistling while he works, if he’d ever been able to whistle, and if he didn’t remember Vandren’s old advice that whistling whipped up a storm. But it’s peaceful anyway.

After a few minutes, Beau comes out of the harbor office and walks down the dock toward them. “Hey,” she calls, when she’s close enough. “You guys coming to dinner tonight?”

“Yes, I am,” Yasha says.

“So am I,” Fjord agrees.

Beau nods. “Cool. Jessie was gonna be pretty upset if you didn’t.”

“She’s not driving us, is she?” Yasha asks.

“No, Nott is. She said she’d be here by four.” Beau glances out to sea. “Hopefully before that storm comes in.” She sits on the dock beside Yasha, legs crossed neatly under herself. “How were the storms, Yash?”

“They were good,” Yasha says. “But I think I was ready to be back. This might have been the last big storm. Or, well—” She glances up at the sky. “Maybe tonight will be.”

Fjord looks up as well. The clouds are still growing thicker and darker overhead.

Beau turns to him. “How’s the boat going?”

“Coming along,” Fjord tells her.

“It looks good,” Beau says. “Way better than it used to.”

“It does,” Yasha agrees.

Fjord stands from his crouch and steps back, taking it in. _Green Fathom_ , his fishing boat, his pride and purpose. Hell of a thing to mend with his own hands in a strange harbor ninety miles from his own. But the hull is patched back to its smooth curve; the engine has been refitted; the storage compartment is watertight; even the navigation system is working again.

He turns back to Beau and Yasha. “I really have both of you to thank for this, you know. Beau, you gave me a berth in this harbor, and Yasha, you helped me with the engine. And a lot more than that, from both of you. It means a lot.”

“Course we helped,” Beau says. “Small town. You give, you get. That’s how it works.”

“You told me something like that when I got here,” Fjord says.

“Yeah,” Beau muses, “I think I did.”

“How much longer do you think you’ll be in town?” Yasha asks.

Fjord looks at _Green Fathom_ for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, which is truer than any other answer he could’ve given. “Guess I’ll... check in with Vandren, or something.”

“You don’t have to know,” Yasha says. “I was just asking. It isn’t like we don’t have room, or anything.”

“Not like Caleb doesn’t have room,” Beau mutters.

“Yes, exactly,” Yasha agrees. “Also, speaking of that, what time is it?”

Beau pulls out her phone and checks the time. “Nott should be here any minute.”

“Good,” Yasha says, looking up. “Fjord, where do you keep your rain cover?”

Fjord’s about to ask what she means when the wind hits them like a wave that won’t stop breaking, and then he’s scrambling to get the rain cover unfolded and Beau and Yasha are grabbing corners and he jumps up on the ramp to reach the far side, and Beau’s shouting about the storm coming in, but she’s grinning too, and by the time they get the rain cover tied down a car is honking from the street above the harbor, and Fjord doesn’t even think, just starts sprinting up the dock with them even though he can’t hear a thing through the roar of the storm blowing in, and then they’re up and over the harbor wall and Beau is yanking the car door open and leaping inside, and Yasha follows, and Fjord swings into the one open seat and slams the door just as the first drops of rain begin to batter at the roof.

And then it’s quiet. Comparatively quiet, anyway, but the storm is drumming harmlessly outside instead of soaking him, and he recognizes the voices rising in laughter all around him. Nott is sitting in the driver’s seat, turned all the way around to yell at Beau, who’s squished between Jester and Yasha next to him. The car definitely isn’t made to seat four people in the back, but Beau is mostly in Jester’s lap and that seems to be working fine. They’ll be driving on dirt roads, anyway.

“Hey,” Caduceus says, turning around to smile at Fjord from his spot riding shotgun. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m doing well,” Fjord says, raking his hair out of his eyes. “How’re you?”

“I got the passenger seat,” Caduceus says, “so I’m pretty good. Legroom, you know.”

“That is a plus,” Fjord agrees.

“I’m driving!” Nott yells. “Buckle up!” She doesn’t wait for Beau or Fjord to so much as reach for a seatbelt—though Yasha’s somehow already done hers—before throwing the car into gear and screeching off down the main street of Widow’s Ford with windshield wipers flailing.

They get onto the road out of town, and the car splashes more mud and rainwater out of every pothole they hit. The storm only grows stronger; by the time they pull up in front of Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast, rain is sluicing down the windows, and the wipers are doing nothing to help. Fjord counts his blessings that they didn’t have to drive on the highway.

Nott parks her car as close to the front door as she can, and they all pile inside. Fjord ducks out of the way as quickly as he can and goes to his room down the hall to change his shirt. He can hear Caleb saying something, but he stands at the window a minute longer, watching the waves breaking on the shore.

The fear’s there, when he looks for it. He can only look at it sideways, but he feels out the shape of it. It’s the same as it’s always been. Maybe a little smaller. A little quieter, with _Green Fathom_ nearly repaired and a roof over his head, and voices he knows in the hall.

He fixes his shirt and leaves the room. Everyone else must have gone into the dining room, but Caleb is still in the entryway, shutting the front window tightly. He glances back over his shoulder at Fjord and remarks, “It’s really coming down out there.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Fjord agrees. “Nott showed up right when it started.”

“ _Ja_ , I was told. Good timing.” Caleb finishes latching the window and crosses the entryway to Fjord. “I think the soup is done—if you would help me carry it out?”

“Oh—yeah, of course.”

They loop through the dining room, where everyone else has taken more chairs from the tables to make enough seats around the fire. “Dinner in a moment,” Caleb says, “I only need to get the bowls. Stay here—yes, we’ll be all right, Nott—back in a minute.”

In the kitchen, a large pot of soup is simmering on the stove. Caleb takes two trays down from a shelf, and Fjord retrieves seven bowls and seven spoons from the right drawers. Caleb fills each bowl carefully, without spilling broth from the ladle.

Caleb starts into the dining room with one tray, and Fjord follows him with the other. “What kind of soup?” Beau asks as soon as she sees them.

“Vegetable and noodle,” Caleb says, handing her a bowl and a spoon. “I have not changed it at all.”

“Awesome,” she says, and takes a gulp directly from the bowl. “Shit, that’s hot.”

“You have to blow on it,” Jester chides, demonstrating.

“Did you burn your tongue?” Nott chimes in.

Beau gestures vaguely at them and takes another sip. “Shut up, it’s good.”

“Caduceus’s recipe,” Caleb says.

Caduceus nods. “It’s a favorite.”

“Thank you, Caleb,” Yasha adds quietly. She’s sitting in an armchair to the side, and has Caleb’s cat in her lap.

“Of course,” Caleb says, passing Fjord a bowl and taking the last for himself. He sits in his usual armchair, and Fjord glances around before claiming the loveseat, which seems to have been left mysteriously open. The fire in the hearth is small, but warm; Fjord can practically feel his hair drying.

“So how was your trip, Yasha?” Jester asks.

“Oh—it was good,” Yasha says.

“Last big storms of the year, huh?” Caduceus asks.

Yasha nods. “Yes, I think so. The wind has settled a little bit, so it should be calming down. This might be the last big one.”

“I wish it wasn’t winter already,” Jester sighs.

“Yeah, same,” Beau agrees. “I mean, town’s a lot quieter, but it doesn’t even get that busy in the summer. Or hot, really.”

“It’s a little warmer in Port Damali,” Fjord says. “Still cool out on the water, though.”

“I’ve been there in the summer,” Yasha says. “It’s very nice there. The circus passes through sometimes. Nott, didn’t you and Yeza and Luc go once?”

Nott swallows another gulp of soup. “Oh, yes, we did. Luc was little, so we didn’t see much, but it’s a nice town.”

“Jessie, we still have to do that road trip,” Beau says. “Y’know, when you’re ready, but—”

“Yes!” Jester exclaims. “I’d love to, Beau. Maybe next summer we can do it.”

“You are planning a road trip?” Caleb asks.

“We’re going to drive all the way up the coast!” Jester says. “We’ll go see my mama, visit all the cities, and then go up north on the way back to maybe find my dad. Just to see, you know.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Caduceus says.

“I think so too!” Jester says, smiling. “But I think—” she looks around at the group—“if there’s going to be seven of us, we sure won’t all fit in my car. Unless two people sit in the trunk, maybe.” “Yeza and I were talking about getting a minivan,” Nott says, “to make it easier to carry boxes around. We’d all fit in that.”

The conversation goes on, about packing and itineraries and how many hours to Nicodranas, and Fjord takes a moment to count the people sitting around the circle. Jester had said seven, which means all of them. Himself included.

He glances around again, meets Caleb’s eye. Caleb is watching him quietly—almost warmly, Fjord would think, if he’d ever thought warmly was a way people could look at each other—and when he raises his eyebrows in question, Caleb gives him the smallest of smiles. It’s a good look on him. Fjord finds himself smiling back.

“Hey, Fjord! Can you drive?” Beau demands.

“Yeah, I can—why?”

“We’re working out shifts. So that’s me, Fjord, Jessie, Nott, and Caleb, right? And only Caleb and Fjord and I are allowed to drive where we could get pulled over?”

“I can drive,” Yasha says.

Beau blinks. “You can drive?” 

“Well, I used to be able to drive. I don’t know if I can now.”

“Good enough. So everyone but Cad—that’s definitely enough for a rotation or something, right?”

“I mean, I could learn to drive,” Caduceus says. “If you wanted someone else.”

Beau stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, sure, we’ll teach you to drive, Cad. I think Dairon’s also technically the DMV instructor here so they’d deputize me to teach you anyway. Maybe not in cities at first, okay?”

“Why are we teaching Caduceus to drive?” Fjord mutters across the circle to Caleb.

“And why are we planning a summer road trip in November? Just go with it,” Caleb murmurs back. The smile is fainter now, but the light in his eyes is still there.

The road trip planning session continues for a while; Fjord finds himself contributing his vague memories of the attractions around Port Damali and the best times to visit the beaches, which Jester receives with incredible enthusiasm. By the time Caduceus disappears to make tea, the frenetic planning has dissolved into several separate conversations, one of which might be a philosophical slapfight and another of which might be a meaningful heart-to-heart, though hell if he can tell which is which.

“Hey,” Beau says, to his side.

Fjord jumps a little and turns to her. “Hey.”

“How’re you doing, man?”

“Good,” Fjord says, and it’s honest, he means it, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words, so he just says it again: “I’m good. How’re you?”

“Think I am too,” Beau says. “Weird how that happens.”

“We have good friends,” he says.

“Yeah, we do,” she says. “Y’know, I...”

“What?”

Beau sighs. “Move over.” She bumps his shoulder so he moves over enough to let her sit on the arm of the loveseat, legs crossed to balance. “I don’t think they know how good they are,” she says, very quietly.

“I think you’re right,” Fjord says.

Beau looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think so. None of us really get—” He stops there, has to, can’t figure out how to say what he’s thinking, and all the options are too bold, too sure.

“None of us really get it,” Beau agrees anyway.

“That we matter,” he hazards, as quietly as he can.

“Yeah,” Beau says. “That we matter.” She leans on his shoulder for a second, then gets up. “I’m gonna go talk to Jessie.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to stick around for the road trip, you know. No one’s gonna make you. But Jess’d like it if you did.”

“Oh, Jester would?”

“Yeah, Jester would,” Beau says.

Fjord laughs. “All right.”

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll... think about it.”

“Good enough,” Beau says, and turns. “Hey, Jessie, gotta talk to you about something—”

The kitchen door swings open and Caduceus emerges with a tray full of steaming teacups. He sets the tray down and places a sachet of tea in each cup, then offers the tray around. There seems to be a distinction in which cup is for which person, and Fjord takes the cup that’s given to him when Caduceus holds it out. It’s not the floral tea he drank at the tea shop—instead, it’s almost spicy, with a hint of sweetness.

“Thought you’d like that one,” Caduceus says.

“I do,” Fjord says. “What is it?”

“It’s a new blend. I’ll give you a box,” Caduceus says, which isn’t an answer, but that’s all right. “I’m glad you’ve found a place here, Fjord.” Something must show on his face; Caduceus adds, “Whatever you decide to do next.”

“Guess so,” Fjord agrees.

“I don’t suppose you and Caleb have had any sort of conversation about that?”

“About... what?” Fjord asks, struggling to feign calm.

“Well, that’s all right,” Caduceus says. “No need to rush.”

“Caduceus,” Fjord says. “What?”

“About the two of you,” Caduceus explains, which is still more or less unhelpful and also makes Fjord’s stomach flip like he’s cresting a whitecap. “Don’t worry too much about it. I think you’ll be just fine.”

“...Thanks,” Fjord says.

“You’re welcome,” Caduceus says, smiling. He walks away, leaving Fjord with his tea.

Fjord sits there, holding the cup, and sips from it occasionally. The conversation ebbs and flows around him; he joins in when he feels like it, and sometimes he’s dragged in, but it’s comfortable. Cozy. He takes another sip of tea.

When he finishes the cup, he gets up and goes into the kitchen to wash it out. Before he turns on the faucet, a voice stops him in his tracks. It sounds like Caleb, coming from—yes, Caleb’s bedroom is behind the kitchen, tucked into the corner of the house. And that must be Nott replying:

“I mean, you always look good, Cay, but you’ve been looking better than usual.”

“ _Ja_ , I, ah—thank you, Nott.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Mm-hmm.” A pause. “You know, I have been sleeping a little better lately, I think.”

“With Fjord?!”

“No, not with him. Or, well—”

“ _With Fjord?!_ ”

“In the dining room, Nott, do not look at me like that—”

“You had sex with a mysterious stranger in the dining room? People eat there! And, _and_ , I know it might sound tempting and romantic, but it’s not safe at all to do the do near an open flame! I _have_ learned this the hard way!”

“Not like that,” Caleb says, sounding exasperated and fond in equal measure. “And I... I hope you and Yeza are both all right.”

“A little singed,” Nott says. Fjord hopes it’s a joke, but he really isn’t sure.

“We have been sitting up together,” Caleb continues. “He seems to suffer the same... issues I do.”

“With the fire?” Nott hazards.

“Sleepless nights.”

“Oh, I see,” Nott says. “Well. Whatever you’re getting up to with Fjord—”

“ _Nott_ —”

“—I think it’s good for you. For both of you.” She pauses. “Don’t you think?”

“I— _ja_ ,” Caleb murmurs. “ _Ja_. I do.”

“Good. So what were you in here for?”

“Ah, I meant to find a book...”

A shuffle of paper, and then two sets of footsteps move toward the door. Fjord startles and wrenches the faucet on, spraying himself with lukewarm water. He wrestles it down to a thin stream as Nott and Caleb emerge from Caleb’s room. “Hey,” he says, quickly rinsing out his cup.

“Oh—hello, Fjord,” Caleb says. “Ah. I will—see you in a moment.” He steps out into the dining room. Nott follows, but turns back to wink at Fjord before she goes.

Fjord stands there at the sink, clean teacup in hand, for several long minutes before he gets up the courage to follow.

The rest of the evening passes in a slow stream of the same relaxed chatter. Their friends pile into Nott’s van to drive back as midnight presses in, and after the door closes and the rumble of the engine dies away, Fjord and Caleb both move in quiet agreement to the kitchen. Caleb turns on the lights over the sink while they wash the dishes. They don’t talk over the sound of running water and creaking pipes, but when Caleb hands the saucepan to Fjord to dry and turns off the faucet, the storm comes rushing back in.

Fjord dries the saucepan with a dishcloth and puts it back in its customary cabinet. Thunder booms, dull but near, and he swears the gutters rattle. “Well, the storm seems to be here for the night,” he says, turning back to Caleb.

Caleb nods. “It certainly does.”

“I don’t feel like pretending I’ll get any sleep tonight,” Fjord says, and it feels like a confession, but he pushes on anyway. “Would you care to join me?”

Caleb looks at him for a moment—just looks, as though trying to understand. It is a kind look on his face and Fjord does not shy from it. “Of course,” he says, quietly. “A moment, please.” He disappears into his bedroom.

Fjord putters around the kitchen for a moment, drying his hands on his dishcloth and hanging it on the handle of the oven, and then goes into the dining room. He draws the curtains over the wide picture window, shutting out some of the noise of the storm. The fire pops and crackles behind him; he goes to the woodbox and finds a log to lay on the hearth. He tries to mimic what he’s seen Caleb do before, and it seems to work—at least, flames begin to lick up around the split wood, and heat washes over him.

The sound of Caleb’s footsteps on the linoleum in the kitchen rouses Fjord from his reverie, and he takes his usual spot in the loveseat without another thought, tugging a pillow over to tuck behind his lower back.

Caleb steps into the dining room, book in hand. He looks to the hearth, and must notice the log Fjord laid on; he looks up at Fjord with a curious expression.

“Come sit,” Fjord says, and pats the empty space on the loveseat before he can stop himself.

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says. “Sure.”

He comes, slowly, to sit beside Fjord. He’s stiff at first, just perching on the edge of the loveseat, but then he relaxes back into the corner. They don’t quite touch; Fjord sits a little more upright, doesn’t sprawl as much.

“This is cozy,” Caleb says, soft. His book is open on his lap, but he doesn’t seem to be reading.

“Yeah,” Fjord agrees.

A minute passes. Fjord watches the fire settle into a steady burn. The sharper crackling helps counterpoint the dull roar of the storm outside.

“Ah—Fjord,” Caleb says.

Fjord jolts a little, looks at him. “What?”

“You, ah.” Caleb is looking at his book, not making eye contact. His ears are red. “It is—nice. Spending these nights. With you.”

“Yeah,” Fjord says, low in his chest. “Yeah, we always end up here somehow, don’t we.”

“ _Ja_ , I prefer it,” Caleb says. “It is much better than a night alone.”

“It matters, you know,” Fjord says. “It matters, uh. To me. All of this.”

Caleb seems to understand; he looks back at Fjord, with that warmth again—that warmth, which makes Fjord want to lean closer. “It does matter,” he agrees. He pauses, then: “I am not sure I have shown it as well as you deserve.”

“I think we understand each other a little better than you think,” Fjord tells him, and it comes out gentle, somehow, easy, like smoke rising.

“Perhaps,” Caleb muses, low, warm. “Perhaps we do...”

“And it’s not about the nights—you know that, right?” Fjord says, and savors the weight of it on his tongue. “Caleb. I—sitting up at night matters to me because _you_ matter to me. And if that’s—if you feel the same, then—” He offers it to Caleb like it’s something tangible, rainwater and sea spray in his hands.

“I think—yes, the same,” Caleb says. “ _Ja_. I have been thinking it for a little while now.” His gaze is bright, intent. Fjord burns beneath it.

“Caleb,” he murmurs.

“ _Ja_?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He watches, rapt, unsteady, as Caleb closes his book and sets it aside. Caleb turns, and edges in to close the last inch of distance between them, hip to thigh. “Yes,” he says, very softly.

Fjord sits up from the corner of the loveseat in a rush and reaches out, finding Caleb’s shoulder with one hand. “You—are you sure?” he spits out.

“Of course I am,” Caleb says, and leans in and kisses him—just once, without reaching for him, lingering just long enough to knock the breath from his lungs. It feels like an inevitability, a rainstorm, the sun through the clouds. Caleb draws away, barely an inch, as if giving him the chance to change his mind.

Like fuck that’ll happen.

He pulls Caleb back in, hand to the curve of his head, and kisses him again. Caleb tastes like mint, he realizes, through the giddy haze. Mint, and his hands are warm where they grip Fjord’s shirt, and when he shifts halfway into Fjord’s lap, Fjord tugs him the rest of the way, falls back against the loveseat with Caleb toppling easily into his arms. Caleb makes a small, surprised sound, and then he presses into Fjord’s grasp, his mouth searing.

They come apart slowly, just breathing, close. Fjord runs a hand down Caleb’s back, feeling the long curve of his spine rise and fall with his breath. Caleb’s hand flexes softly where he braced himself on Fjord’s chest.

“You taste minty,” Fjord says, a little dizzy.

Caleb’s lips twitch. “Do I?”

Fjord peers at him, then, realizing, asks, “Did you brush your teeth? Is that why you went back to your room?”

“Well, I did have to get my book, you know,” Caleb says, a smile creeping over his face. “But you asked me to join you, so perhaps I was, ah, hoping that something like this might happen...”

“You smooth fucker,” Fjord tells him, and Caleb laughs. Kisses him again. Maybe it was meant to be quick, but it turns slow and deep, and Fjord pulls Caleb as close as he can, feeling the ceramic lines of Caleb’s body shaping to his.

“Come to bed,” Caleb whispers, holding Fjord’s face between his palms. “I would rather not spend the night in this loveseat again. I do not know how you aren’t sore in the mornings.”

Fjord chuckles, takes Caleb’s hand in his, kisses his wrist. “It’ll catch up to me one of these days.” Then, more quiet, “Your room?”

“If you also...” Caleb begins, trails off.

“Yeah,” Fjord says. “Yeah. I do.” Kisses Caleb’s wrist again, because he can, because Caleb’s there, because the thin tendons under the skin relax from their tension when he does it. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep,” he adds. The storm is still raging outside, though it feels far away. Another continent. Another shore.

Caleb shakes his head infinitesimally. “I may not either.” His—hell, his lashes are lit by the lamp and turning gold, his eyes bright and intent. Hard brow and mint-sweet breath. Fjord’s stunned by him. “Will you come to bed with me, Fjord?”

“Yes,” Fjord says, and leans up to brush his cheek to Caleb’s, kisses him quick and sweet as he can manage. He sits up slowly, letting Caleb slide off him before he stands up.

He offers Caleb his hand. Caleb takes it.

Fjord wakes up.

It’s dark in the room—so dark he can’t even find the shape of the alarm clock on the nightstand. All he can think of is the dreamscape of howling wind and crashing waves, and he wrenches himself bolt upright before he even catches his breath, starts to plant his hands to stand—

“Fjord?” Caleb murmurs.

There’s a shuffle near him, of sheets, Fjord realizes, and he blinks into the darkness beside him to see the faint shape of Caleb prop himself up on an elbow. “Fjord,” he says again, “is something wrong?”

“A nightmare,” Fjord says.

They’d fallen asleep, he realizes, without meaning to.

“Ah.” Caleb curls an arm around Fjord’s hips where he sits half-tangled in the sheets. “Do you want to get up? Or we could put a light on...”

Fjord considers it briefly. “I don’t think so.” He’s breathing easier now, can look around, spot the shape of Caleb’s nightstand and the panes of the window behind the curtain. And Caleb, beside him, is a reassuring presence on his own. Maybe he’ll sit up a while, but... “Think I’m all right.”

“Good,” Caleb murmurs, and lies back down. He doesn’t move his arm, and Fjord’s glad for it.

He leans across Caleb to the window, lifts the curtain slightly to the side. There’s only the faintest light, scattered against the clouds by the cities up and down the coast—maybe as far as Port Damali, even. It’s just enough to see that the wind is still gusting ferociously, but instead of sheets of rain...

“It’s snowing,” Fjord whispers.

Caleb blinks up at him. “Snowing?”

“Yeah. Might even stick a little bit.”

“It’s the right time of year,” Caleb says. “For the first snow. If we’re lucky, it will stay.”

“Will it?”

“Mm. _Ja_. Until spring,” Caleb tells him, quiet. What goes unspoken: _when the rainstorms come_.

“I know,” Fjord says. “I know.”

But for now, snow is falling on the roof of Blumenhaus Bed and Breakfast. In the little bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking the sea, Fjord pulls the sheets back over his shoulders and, reaching in the dark, finds Caleb’s hand with his.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic owes a surprisingly small amount to method writing, though i fully admit some of those conversations really only worked when i stayed up past midnight to write them.
> 
> i’m @swallowtailed on tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
